Your Mistress, Captain Butler
by rhae52
Summary: A broken marriage. A splintered family. A love worn out. A new life for Rhett. A new love for Scarlett. They went their separate ways, until one fateful day their wounded souls were brought back together again. Will their arrangement repair their fractured love or will it tear their hearts asunder? *Warnings apply*
1. Prologue: The Beginning

YMCB is my first WIP in GWTW and my ultimate goal for this fic is to NOT SANITIZE Rhett nor Scarlett. Margaret Mitchell's characterizations were nothing short of brilliant. Rhett Butler and Scarlett O'Hara were so very complex, so very flawed and God's Nightgown! I am just foolish enough to take on the daunting task of writing a GWTW fan fic.

 **YMCB is rated M for sex, violence and sexual violence** (nothing explicit) **.**

 **And on that note, if you wish to read the Prologue but prefer to skip over M-rated content, please scroll down to the first line break.**

( _I know.I know.I know.I know..._ what a way to start a story! *blush* But sometimes it is best to jump right in and see if you sink or swim. Hopefully, we'll still meet at the bottom of the screen.)

 **Disclaimers:**

 _•I need to reiterate that my goal at the onset of YMCB was to not sanitize Rhett nor Scarlett which invariably means that YMCB will not be everyone's cup of tea. I appreciate readers that are still willing to give YMCB a try, but I understand if you do not continue on with the story. Cheers._

 _•Like all authors, I LOVE comments and feedback that are constructive and useful. If the intended comment is meant to inflame, then it will be deleted. Sorry guys, no trolls on the YMCB board._

 _•I do not own nor profit from Margaret Mitchell's beautiful characters. In accordance with producing a_ _transformative work, the source_ _copyrighted elements derived_ _from Gone With The Wind have been removed and_ _Your Mistress, Captain B- has been submitted to the US Copyright Office for copyright protection, thereby the author retains all rights to the original creative work of this story._

* * *

 _ **Your Mistress, Captain Butler**_

 _ **Prologue**_

 ** _The Deep South_**

 ** _Reconstruction, 1875_**

"I shall finish my drink and come to your chamber directly."

Perched in front of her European Chinoiserie vanity, her fingers danced across the gleaming lacquer, validating her belief that all of the personal sacrifices were minuscule when one was afforded such exquisiteness. Tossing her curls over her shoulder, she broke from her pragmatic musings and dedicated her attention to the task before her. Her abigail divested her of the Polonaise basque, corset and undergarments. A tingle lingered on her skin, welcoming the scandalous recollection of the peignoir's lustrous silk slipping over her shoulders and shimmying down her curves. Nimble fingers dislodged the garnet hair pins, one clink on top of another as each dropped into the porcelain dish. The reflection in the mirror was a reminder of her sole offering. Many a man dreamt of finding solace from her, drowning within the depths of her beauty, her eyes, her body. She drew in a deep breath.

"I shall finish my drink and come to your chamber directly." He had dismissed her with a sideways glance, speaking over the rim of his crystal tumbler as she happened upon him in the parlor. His cool deportment and abrupt words taunted her still.

The bristles of the silver-plated brush dragged down her curls and she closed her mind off to any further thoughts. With her nightly toilette complete, she placed the brush in its habitual resting place on the dressing table. Buried within the left drawer, second from the bottom, she retrieved a small bottle of floral extracts. In its current state, the cloying scent of tuberose and yling ylang assaulted the senses, but it would have to do. Shifting her hips forward to the edge of the stool, she spread her knees and raised a shapely calf. Bracing her leg upon the inlaid Mother of Pearl edging, her filmy negligee slithered down her leg and pooled in the recess of her lap.

Her first two digits closed off the opening as her wrist tipped the bottle of oil, coating the pads of her fingers. Using her free hand she reached down between her thighs, skimming her nails across her mound of silken curls. She slipped her middle finger in the crease of her sex followed by her forefinger, gently spreading her folds apart and distributing the scented oil. Deftly rubbing the liquid up and down her slit, she circled her bundle of nerves, slowly awakening the center of her desire. Her strokes were tentative and hopeful -hopeful that his expert touch would stoke her burgeoning need. Would he touch her? ...tease her? ...penetrate her? His earlier demeanor, lacking in its usual carnal appetence, confounded more than enlightened.

Her eye lids grew heavy and her head drifted back on her shoulders as her tender flesh began to weep and throb under her ministrations. She relaxed her posture and drew one hand up her torso, palming a breast. A moan escaped her lips as she pinched and rolled her nipple between her finger and thumb. Her strokes became faster, her breathing became harder, her fingers became slicker...

...until the door closed with a 'snick'.

The conspicuous foot resting on the vanity hit the floor with a thud. She dropped her lashes, hiding her gaze, daring not to acknowledge his presence in the wake of her shocking attitude. With silence accompanying his footfalls, the aroma of tobacco was her only indication that he had closed the gap between them and stood directly behind her. Her peripheral vision locked in on the umber liquid sloshing out from the glass that he had lobbed across the dressing table. The upset caused by the distilled spirits oozing across her most cherished possession was punctuated by a tin of preventatives skipping across the veneer and landing in the expanding puddle of bourbon.

The handkerchief she hastily retrieved to mop up the spill fell from her grasp. In one fluid movement, his hand snaked around her waist, lifting her off of the stool and dragging her behind it. She pivoted on her heel and wrapped her arms around his neck. Grabbing both of her wrists, he dislodged himself from her embrace and spun her back around, pressing his loins into her posterior. He clutched her hips and held her in place while grinding his pelvis into the cleft of her buttocks, ensuring that she felt every inch of his arousal. Taking a half-step away from her body, he splayed his hand across her back and bent her forward over the bench until her forehead was resting on the cushion's burgundy velvet.

She twisted her neck, guiding her sight toward his likeness projecting from the full-length mirror across the room. He flaunted propriety coming to her wearing neither a jacket nor a waistcoat. His shirt, untucked and unbuttoned from cravat to breeches, hung recklessly from his broad shoulders, exposing the dark and wiry hair spread across his massive chest. His hair was slightly mussed and his shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbows. Even in such an unprecedented state of dishabille, no other man wore detachment with such elegance.

She mewled, suppressing a shiver racing up her body in conjunction with his large hand lifting a fistful of her gown up and over her hips, gathering the material in the small of her back.

Not a word was spoken but understanding did not escape her. Although the angle and positioning of her body obscured the view, she could clearly see that a seduction was not to commence when his arm disappeared behind her. All she heard was the rustling of his clothing and the blood pounding in her ears. All she felt was his deep exhalations against her hips and her flesh thickening between her legs. All she saw was his wrist fumbling with the buttons on the fall of his trousers.

And then his arm began a rhythmic motion, languidly pumping his fist up and down. And then she felt moisture dripping from her core and trickling down her leg. And then stillness. And then silence. And then nothing. There was nothing but the distinct sound of crackling as he unfurled the rubber down the length of his thick shaft.

He stepped up to the warmth radiating out from her mound of pliable flesh and dampened curls. Holding his erection in one hand, he took his other hand and sliced his finger down the seam of her secret lips. She clenched her walls around the digit that he slid up and inside her. He gifted her with a fleeting swipe of his finger over her erogenous ledge before slowly pulling out, chuckling at her wanton hips shamelessly undulating in the air. He glanced at his hand, saturated with the pungent eau de toilette and her fluids.

"Good girl," he growled with approval, slapping her voluptuous bottom with an open hand, leaving a blushing imprint on her lily-white skin. In her quivering eagerness, she bucked against him but he held her waist with one hand, quelling her advance. Bending his knees, his other hand pressed his cock at her entrance and rimmed her opening with its engorged head. His muscles tightened and his features contorted for the barest moment. He flared his nostrils and in one swift thrust, buried himself to the hilt. She sucked in her breath. Her arms flailed from the impact, forcing her to catch herself on the edge of the seat to regain her purchase. She felt the cool air nip at her sheath, unabashedly yielding to him, as he pulled himself from her depths and slammed into her once more. Biting down on her lip, she tasted blood as his blows and her heartbeat simultaneously picked up their pace. She claimed herself to be as dispassionate as he, but her overstimulated body belied her, savoring the sounds of his fine woolen trousers pounding out a muffled rhythm against her exposed sex in harmony with her wet and greedy cunnus suckling his member.

The room dimmed and the walls encroached upon them as he consummated their arrangement, one that was as ancient as the Old Testament, her flesh for his pleasure and yet on that sweltering summer's eve, he took none. His empty gaze focused on a remote corner of the candle-lit room and his unyielding expression remained as cold as stone.

Never one to dwell on introspection, something deep within her acknowledged the profundity of the occasion. Their days and nights of a mutually sensual pursuit were no more, melting away like the last snowfall in spring. Before her was a future that no longer held the promise of playing, exciting, tasting, and exploring. His lone desire was to fall into a brief emptiness found only from a physical release.

But she wouldn't think about that now.

She moaned and arched her back, vaulting her hips into his loins, meeting each thrust with vigor. Her exuberant grinding succeeded in bringing his lifeless eyes back to the moment. He grabbed a fistful of her fleshy rump, halting her quim pistoning against him. Wrapping his other hand around the base of his shaft, he pulled out his glistening cock. His opened shirt draped the expanse of her back as he leaned over and hovered near her ear. A chill seeped into the room and down to her bones when his Low Country drawl demanded through gritted teeth still clenching the tip of a smoldering cheroot, "Spread your legs. I want to go deeper."

A tickling sensation of no more than a feather heightened her senses. Her eyes darted toward his face and discovered that flecks of charcoal and silver ash were peppering down her cheek and landing on her exotic furniture. Shifting her gaze back to the mirror, she screwed her eyes shut and shifted her feet. He lowered his hands and placed them on her backside, nudging her cheeks further apart, and holding her gaping folds open until she was taut with tension. She exhaled a low grunt as he drilled into her once more, driving her chin deeper into the soft cushion.

The musky smell of sexual congress that permeated the air, of which never failed to titillate her, was masked by an amalgam of cigar smoke, whiskey, and repugnance. His unique scent of liquor, tobacco, cologne, and leather defined him as a gentleman, polishing his exterior with gentility while cloaking the predatory beast lurking deep within. Their combined essence had always made her heady. But as he was seated within the confines of her body, she did not shudder with delight, rather she shrugged her nose.

He was a man who once reeked of sexuality and sin, but in the cloistered chamber, defined by their gyrating bodies secreting sweat and burdens, the stranger in the mirror merely reeked of drink.

And yet she was desperate to remove her hand and wrap it around his base and fondle his sensitive spot or to find her clit and heighten her own pleasure, for he offered none.

Her soft flesh absorbed his cock, hot and throbbing, against her thrumming walls. She felt the stirrings of her release build within her. The liquid, burning sensation pulsed within her wet core, spreading to her fingers and toes. Her buttocks rocked back and forth against his erection, matching his every pounding with her own pushes. The stool creaked on the woolen carpet in time with his grunts. Leaning on her forearm, she lifted her torso and raised her upper body off of the seat. Her negligee slipped further until it hung loosely around her neck. Raw and aroused, her nipples occasionally scraped across the bench as her full and heavy breasts circled and swayed, slapping against each other.

Her lips emitted lusty cries, deep moans and an occasional whimper. Venturing another glance toward the looking glass, she found their reflection. Beads of sweat marked his forehead and his expressionless mask had melted away. The pressure of his white knuckles, gripping her waist and dimpling her skin, intensified. His eyelids were clenched together and his mouth held on tight to a bared-teeth grimace and that goddamned cigar. Answering her silent plea, he caught her stare in the mirror and their eyes locked.

Another resounding crack upon her porcelain skin broke the humid air.

"Close your eyes, darling."

* * *

 ** _The Deep South_**

 ** _Nine Months Later  
_**

Fighting against the bright spots of light swimming over her head, she cried out from the searing pain that bore into her flesh. She squinted her eyes, peering through slits. Flashes of color, white hot and frigid blue, marred her vision. Nothing came in to focus. Nothing was familiar. Her eyelids, too heavy with fear to beckon for help, drifted shut again.

Another fleeting break in her unconscious state assaulted her. Her eyes flew open again. "NO!" She wailed thrashing her legs, kicking at the indiscriminate beast hellbent on subjugating her. Shapes and surfaces blurred. Her eyes saw only gray. Her ears only heard distant murmuring. Pounding footsteps. Scraping wood. Bustling bodies. Keening women. Wailing children. Voices babbled in foreign tongues. Praying men. But why?

She wrenched her head to the side pressing her cheek against the boards of pine, realizing that her body laid upon a bare floor. But where? Lifting a leaden hand, she curled her fingers around her neck. She could not swallow past the constriction in her throat. Her eyes widened as she felt her neck muscles reflex and her body began choking itself. She gasped for air and flailed about until a gentle arm reached around her back and lifted her head. The gentle arm offered her salvation in a glass of water. Cries of exultation interspersed with cries of anguish erupted around her. More pain was inflicted upon her at the hands of the relentless and pitiless Almighty Devil himself.

Bodies of all different forms and statures floated near the edge of her consciousness. The gentle arm laid a thick cloth on the floor so that she could lie back and rest her head. Her hand fell to her breasts swathed in an unfamiliar cloth, neither silk, nor organza, nor linen, -but cotton. A shroud of simple cotton. Muzzy images only brought forth hazy recollections. But why?

Her hand gripped the sheet as she lifted the edge and drew up her head to peer down at her body. Unraveled stitching and torn buttons adorned the remnants of the tattered periwinkle silk. Spotted linens hung limp from her unclothed body. Her eyes crept down her ivory skin and saw only a fury of red markings, red streaks. . . and a red hand print. Her insides burned. Her head throbbed. Her lungs stung. No longer able to support herself, her neck collapsed and her eyes rolled up towards the heavens. Her cheek fell back to the cloth.

More crying. Screeching. Praying.

The gentle arm attempted to ensnare a delicate hand frantically grasping for her. The scratchy lids of her eyes fluttered. Would that the gentle arm provide her with just one more drop of water. Forcing her neck to raise its burden, she shifted her head to the side of the soft cloth only to feel stickiness, in the color of red, filling the cloth and adhering to her hair and face. Another flash pain wracked her body, bearing chills and nausea. Her empty stomach convulsed and she heaved up traces of bile. Relief pooled out through every pore of her shaking body as she collapsed for the final time.

Clinging to the remnants of lucidity, she cowered at a piercing shriek that accompanied the delicate hand desperately clawing at her sheet and her person. Time and suffering were suspended. Drifting away from awareness, she lost her resolve as she found her voice.

"Dear God, please take me."

* * *

© 2017-18 Olivia E. Landry. All Rights Reserved.


	2. Of the End

**Disclaimers:**

 _•I need to reiterate that my goal at the onset of YMCB was to not sanitize Rhett nor Scarlett which invariably means that YMCB will not be everyone's cup of tea. I appreciate readers that are still willing to give YMCB a try, but I understand if you do not continue on with the story. Cheers._

 _•Like all authors, I LOVE comments and feedback that are constructive and useful. If the intended comment is meant to inflame, then it will be deleted. Sorry guys, no trolls on the YMCB board._

 _•I do not own nor profit from Margaret Mitchell's beautiful characters. In accordance with producing a_ _transformative work, the source_ _copyrighted elements derived_ _from Gone With The Wind have been removed and_ _Your Mistress, Captain B- has been submitted to the US Copyright Office for copyright protection, thereby the author retains all rights to the original creative work of this story._

* * *

 _ **Chapter 1  
**_

 ** _Springtime, The Deep South, 1874_**

He stood erect, a dignified presence amid the chaos. The tips of his shoes touched the threshold of the heavily guarded door. His gnarled, weary fingers held out the wash bin of warm water and fresh linens. Lowering his gaze, he bowed in deference when a head of brown curls fractured the ribbon of light emanating from a single gas lamp, illuminating the forbidden secrets of the gloomy bedchamber.

"Hol' da clawt 'ganst da woun' til da bleed'n dun stop." Pork instructed softly. He hunched his shoulders, draping the strips of material over the master's forearm, and placing the bowl of water into his anxious hands.

"But it won't stop bleeding!"

"Ahs kin fetch Dahkta Me—"

"No!" His sweet, soulful eyes widened in shock while his quaking arms struggled to calm the water sloshing around the rim of the basin.

Pork peered down at the unwitting orchestrator of the unspoken but momentous coup that took place within the walls of of the Peachtree Street mansion that evening. His tone grew quiet and conspiratorial. "Ahs kin fetch Dilcey. She dun make ev'thin' righ' good."

"Yes— Please— Please fetch Dilcey. Th–Thank you, Pork."

Pork bowed his head. "Ahs beh righ' back wit Dilcey, Masta Wade."

* * *

Sequestered in her well-appointed parlor, she appeared before judge and jury. Scarlett's stare traveled down the straining buttons jutting out from Uncle Henry's burgundy and gold jacquard vest. The brass studs groaned in time with every indignant exhalation whistling forth from his nose. The heat brought about from his vexatious snorts and sputters seemingly perked up a few stray whiskers residing just above his lip, curling one particular strand back up into his nostril.

After catching her fingernails in their third attempt to embed themselves into her scalp, she twisted her fingers together and jammed them into the folds of her skirt. Dilcey's needlework was commendable. The cut lay hidden just beyond Scarlett's hairline. Considerable care was taken with each stitch of the needle, ensuring that scarring would be minimal. But after eight days, the skin chafed, itching mercilessly. However, nothing but time could heal the grotesque discoloration blanketing the side of Scarlett's face.

"Thank you for collecting Wade, Uncle Henry." Scarlett held her chin to her chest, keeping her profile angled away from his eyes, squinting with the intent of a thorough appraisal of her person. Henry leaned back into the settee, placed his clasped hands over the swell of his waistline and harrumphed — _twice_.

"Wade has been expelled from school for two weeks." Henry broke the pregnant silence.

"I don't know what to do." Scarlett whispered. "He has become so angry..."

"Indeed. He is a very angry —and a very confused— young man."

"Expulsion. Two weeks." Scarlett fretted at the silk material cascading down her lap. "Why now? It has been months since Melly and —and Rhett —and —we were doing just fine on our own. But now this..."

"You are not doing 'just fine' and this is not about Melanie nor Rhett. Wade is caught between Scylla and Charybdis." Henry sighed at the joining together of Scarlett's delicate brows. "Has Wade told you as to why he was expelled for scrapping with the Picard boy?"

Her expressive eyes belied the emphatic shake of her head.

"Just or unjust, your actions —or in this case— inaction, is grist for the mill. You have been in hiding since your..." Henry grappled to find a delicate euphemism for 'on a bender', "...unfortunate incident... and I assure you, Scarlett, that your absence about town has not gone unnoticed."

"I can not be seen looking like this."

"No, you can not." Henry grunted, shaking his head. "Unfortunately for you, it may have been easier if your injuries were do to an altercation with your husband. At the very least, you could have possibly gained some sympathy."

Henry brushed off a speck of lint from his coat, along with Scarlett's enflamed glare. "I beg your pardon if you took offense, but I did not make the comment in jest. The gossips are on your scent and they have sniffed out your affinity for spirits."

"What happens in the privacy of my own home is no one's concern but mine! Besides, what does it have to do with Wade being expelled?"

"Everything!" His cheeks flushed and his eyes bulged, clashing in a unbecoming manner against the silver threads streaking his white hair.

"Forgive me." Henry straightened his vest with fervor and ran a finger around his collar, clearing away the constriction in his throat. "Forgive me." Tapping out a rhythm on the arm of the sofa, Henry settled back into the cushions and continued assessing his niece.

"Surely, you can see that Wade is no longer a little boy. He is growing up, Scarlett." Henry softened, searching Scarlett's face for acknowledgment. "He is at an age where he has a greater understanding of the world around him and the same can be said for his playmates. The time has come where youth and innocence can no longer shield Wade from the gossip. Children also have eyes that can see and ears that can hear. One does not have to wonder what was said to Wade that would incite him to engage in fisticuffs."

Scarlett's hands shook with such vehemence that they were rendered useless, rustling the fabric as she attempted to smooth her skirt. The flush of her heated cheeks deepened and tears were collecting on her lowered lashes.

"Wade loves you dearly and he has always seen you as this fearless and indomitable creature. However, he is beginning to realize that you are also a flawed human being, and for some particular reason, your accident has been most unsettling to him." Henry cleared his throat, becoming pensive. "He has seen too much, Scarlett...

"I must have an honest answer from you. I suspect that Dr. Meade never attended to you on the evening of your injury and I believe that is due to Wade. It was your son that nursed you and saw to your care, was it not?"

Scarlett's forlorn sob of admission said everything that Henry anticipated. "Just as I had suspected," he murmured.

"I suppose Aunt Pitty knows." Scarlett fumbled in her pocket for a handkerchief, her tone spiced with bitters.

"I suppose that is true."

"She has probably already sent an express to Aunt Pauline and Aunt Eulalie."

"I suppose that to be true as well."

"Then Rhett must know."

"I suppose."

"What would Mother think of me?" Scarlett bemoaned.

"Your mother?!" Henry guffawed twisting his upper lip. "What kind of notion is that? Is that what truly concerns you?"

"Mother raised me to be a lady."

"This not about your mother, or for that matter, your father. Your parents have gone on to their Glory!" Heat spilled over Henry's white sideburns, reddening his skin up to the frosty roots of his hair. "This is not about _your_ upbringing, this is about the upbringing of your children. You are a grown woman, Scarlett. This is about you and _your_ legacy.

" _Your_ child was witness to your dissipation. _Your_ child is now the subject of ridicule. _Your_ child was defending his mother's honor!

"Ten years from now, even in five, how will you be seen through the eyes of your children? Will Ella revere you as you did Ellen? I can not imagine her awestruck by her mother's beauty when your teeth have rotted, your eyes are bloodshot, and your nose has grown into a gin blossom!"

Henry allowed a fleeting smirk to contort his lips as Scarlett's mouth gaped, satisfied that his strike upon her vanity pierced her armor.

"Ella doesn't know— I have kept her away from—"

"What about Wade?!"

The time had come to draw the poison out from the blood. Silence ensued until Henry picked up the gauntlet.

"My great nephew is the last of the male line that bears the family name. Wade is to carry on our heritage and our traditions. We are Hamiltons. We are Southerners, resilient and prideful!"

Henry leaned forward, clasping his hands together, and rested his elbows on his knees. "Wade Hampton is a remarkable young man, Scarlett. Simply remarkable. I know this to be an absolute truth. Why? Because, although he does not speak of such things, when it is asked of him, he will not hesitate to talk of his most prized possession."

Scarlett raised her eyes in askance and Henry nodded in confirmation. "That's right, Charles' sword —but not for the reasons that you may figure. That vestige may have belonged to his father, but to Wade, that is merely an aside. That sword embodies his mother and what she means to him.

"A few years from now —God willing— Wade will graduate from the military academy. Ask yourself one question, when that day arrives, what do you envision when your son steps onto the stage dressed in full regalia and wearing Charles' sword? When Wade spies you in the audience, will he proudly gaze upon his momma, the woman who had the gumption to fight off the Yankees for that sword, or will he see nothing more than a common drunkard?!"

Katie Scarlett O'Hara Hamilton Kennedy Butler came alive. She snapped her spine to attention and squared her petite shoulders. Her red-rimmed, emerald eyes fired off flames of infuriation. With each ragged breath, her chest heaved of fierce determination. Scarlett thrust her chin forward, fighting against a quivering bottom lip, and lifted her tear-stained face as if her head held up a crown of jewels fit for a queen. The wisp of a woman that met Henry Hamilton's challenging glare was strength personified.

"THAT'S IT, GODDAMMIT!" A cloud of dust erupted from the arm of the settee when Henry's fist hammered the cushion. "That's what I expect from you, Missy! Pride! It is high time that you show some pride by taking your rightful place as the head of this family and conducting your affairs accordingly!"

"But Rhett—"

 **"RHETT BUTLER BE DAMNED!"**

Once held in the clutches of Scarlett's hand, the intricate lace handkerchief fluttered to the floor, landing in a dainty clump at her feet.

"Come now, Scarlett. Now is not the time to be scandalized by any delicate sensibilities that you may have belatedly acquired," Henry sniggered, adding, "and I am certain that you have heard far worse from your ex-husband." His last word came out as a question as he lowered his chin and lifted his scraggly brows.

"I don't know, Uncle Henry. I have not heard from him since..." Scarlett, shrouded in shame, hung her head and slumped her shoulders.

"Rhett is no longer a concern of ours, my dear girl." Henry's voice softened by a touch of compassion. "He has made his decision —and moved on. Now it is time for you to pull yourself up by your bootstraps and for you to move on."

"I don't—"

"Scarlett, in all of the years that I have known you, you have never defined yourself by the words _don't, can't, shant,_ or _won't_. It is not intrinsic of you. You are a survivor. You must —and you will— carry on for your family, and your family is Wade and Ella."

Henry, mute and patient, waited as Scarlett slowly absorbed the gravity and the truthfulness of his words, along with a faded and torn memory —"buckwheat".

"I'll need to sort through some matters. Will you help me, Uncle Henry?" She implored with a hesitant smile and watering eyes. Henry rose from his seat and walked over to Scarlett.

"I will always be there for you, Scarlett." He outstretched his open hand. Scarlett placed her fingertips in the bed of his palm and Henry rested his other hand over top of hers. He bowed his head, giving her fingers a gentle squeeze. The comforting gesture elicited a genuine smile from Scarlett, complete with dimples.

"There is so much to do, so much to consider. I don't know where to begin."

"You will begin by taking your position as the matriarch of this family." Henry strode with a heavy tread over to the console. He pinched two tumblers between his fleshy fingers and held the brandy decanter by the neck, making his way back toward Scarlett. "From this point forward, when you are in society, your conduct will be above reproach. You will never put anything nor anyone above your family. You will never subject your children to unwarranted scorn, and you will _NEVER , EVER_ be enslaved to the bottle again."

Henry poured a generous helping of Rhett's finest liquor into the sparkling crystal and pressed the glass into Scarlett's unsteady hand. "Do not doubt yourself, Scarlett. I have every faith in you." Henry dismissed her bemused features and filled his own snifter with a healthy dose —for medicinal purposes, of course. He sat the cruet on the side table and lifted his glass into the air.

Henry chuckled at her catatonic state of confusion. "Dear Scarlett, beginning tomorrow at dawn, I will personally see that you temper your consumption of libations. But as for tonight, we are surrounded by Rhett's exquisite reserve," Henry leaned in and clinked her glass, "and a ' _never'_ sidling up to an ' _ever'_ is a mighty long time."

* * *

"Will you be coming around this way again?" Disheveled and sated, she rested her back against the headboard of the four-poster bed and nestled herself into the feather mattress. Mesmerized by his graceful movements, she secretly marveled at his fastidious grooming.

He turned his head and cocked an arrogant brow, tossing her a nonverbal reprimand for interrupting a most arduous task: fastening cuff links. "I'm afraid I must make my way back to the East Coast. There are some particulars regarding my business interests that require my immediate attention." He showed her his back, reaching for his waistcoat draped over the bench.

"Hmpf." Her fingers played with the fringe on her dressing gown, inadvertently widening the expanse of visible skin, exposing the curve of her breasts and the peak of one rosy nipple.

"What is the meaning behind your sudden concern into my affairs? Have you joined a traveling troupe? Shall I be missing your company when I am in town next?"

"No. It was mere curiosity. Your business—" she hesitated, drowning in the awkward moment. "Folks have been talking."

"Don't you worry your pretty little head over me, sugar. It's the risk that every man must take when he is in business —and speculation is not a pretty business."

She flushed under the intense scrutiny of his veiled glare as his stride brought him flush with the side of the bed. Adjusting the diamond pin in his cravat, he mused, "Is our arrangement your cause for unease? I sincerely hope that your disquietude is not due to something that I may have inferred."

"You have made yourself perfectly clear as to our _understanding_ years ago."

"Come, come, sweet. I was led to discern that you have always valued the logical foundation of freedom and independence above the fantastical illusions of love. You once told me you that you had set your stars on becoming more famous than Lillian Russell." Her golden curls whipped through the air with a furious twist of her neck. Her shoulders fumed with umbrage. His lips held on to a trace of a snarl as the smug bastard pursued in a biting tone. "Oh, dear me. I fear I may have misunderstood your intentions from the onset of our acquaintance. I believed you to be a true artist, a serious thespian. Now, one might wonder if your amorous attentions were merely a ruse to snare yourself a benefactor."

"I'm not a whore!"

White-knuckled fists slammed into the mattress, caging her body between a layer of satin and an indescribable evil fleeing from the blackened recess of a charred soul.

"No indeed." He spat between clenched teeth, closing in and sweeping his hot breath over her face. "But you might be wise to remember that you are an actress by profession, and an actress is only one step away from being a whore."

She shrank deeper in to the bed, maintaining downcast eyes. He deliberately raised himself from the bed and adjusted the lapels of his vest. She surreptitiously extended a prayer of gratitude to a higher power when his latent vein of violence cauterized as quickly as it had erupted. He first studied and then dismissed her apprehensive gestures sneering, "What exactly did you expect of me, a plaçage?" A chortle, accompanying the return of his derisive manner, escaped his lips. "Sugar, this may cause you undue consternation, but I must inform you of certain truisms." His manner was exaggerated as he comically swept his gaze around the perimeter of the room, supposedly ensuring their secrecy. "Darling, you are _not_ a Quadroon."

"You're a bastard!" She sniffed under her upturned nose. Catching the capricious turn of the atmosphere, she dared to curl up the corner of her mouth. "Although you may not believe me, I fear that as a _suitor_ for my affections, you do not _suit_." He snorted, tapping the band of his signet ring against the silver flask, and raised it to his lips. He hesitated before wrapping his mouth around the cool metal. "I do not suit? Hmm. A pity. I had always considered myself to be quite the eligible gentleman."

"Oh, by no means." A relieved smile formed upon her lips. "If what you have to offer consists of your 'business interests' on the hunt for you, then that is a peck of trouble I can forego."

"Touché." The flask saluted her. He took a hefty swig, swallowing with a grimace. "Then do tell, what are your plans? Do you wish to continue acting?"

"Acting does not provide the means for that of which I seek. I have no desire to live the remainder of my life with a view from a rented room."

His knowing eyes, alight with humor, danced around the small but comfortable bedchamber of Widow Tremaine's boarding house, residing in a quiet, respectable quarter of the city.

"Ah, so it is the sweet promise of marital felicity that stirs your soul. My dear, I have always held our friendship in high regard, and as your friend, may I offer you some advice?"

Her shoulders hiked up in a gauche shrug. "It won't cost you anything and it won't do me any harm."

"You are a considerable beauty —and to your credit, savvy— but you do not have the pedigree to aspire to the station of which you covet. Find yourself a wealthy gentleman and enter into an arrangement."

"I believe I can do better." She laced her fingers together and languidly stretched her arms above her head. "Do you recall that little slip of a thing, Minnie Clark? Well, for your information, she is now betrothed to a plantation owner in St. Charles Parish. When they first met, she was a lowly understudy at Varieties Theater."

"And for every Minnie Clark, there are a dozen girls who now roam the back alleys with a mattress strapped to their back. No, sugar, I believe that you will find being married to a gentlemen may not be to your liking."

"As opposed to a wife painted in watercolors? I thank you, no."

"If your decisions are wise, you will afford yourself a good life."

"At what expense? How much lucre will it entail for me to secure a 'good life'? What will become of me when my benefactor no longer seeks my company nor desires my charms?"

"With so devious a mind as yours lurking behind those pretty little eyes, you will manage just fine. Of that, I am certain."

He stepped up to where she lay reclining on the bed and hooked his finger into the knot of the dressing gown's sash. His wrist flicked and the tie gave. The silk slithered down, pooling into the sheets, revealing her supple body still painted with a delicate blush from their earlier exertions. Knuckles, sprinkled with coarse hair, tickled their way up the soft skin of her leg and inner thigh. "And of course, my sweet, with your _charming_ ways, I daresay, you will keep a man's bed warm for some time." His finger circled the apex of her thighs and dipped inside the warmth of her secret treasure, punctuating the blatant backhand of his compliment.

She gasped, spreading her legs wider as he positioned himself next to her on the coverlet. "Well, since you intend to be away for some time," her back arched and her hips purred in concert with every stroke of his finger, "then it would be my pleasure to leave you with a most _charming_ goodbye."

* * *

© 2017-18 Olivia E. Landry. All Rights Reserved.


	3. Moving On

**Disclaimers:**

 _•I need to reiterate that my goal at the onset of YMCB was to not sanitize Rhett nor Scarlett which invariably means that YMCB will not be everyone's cup of tea. I appreciate readers that are still willing to give YMCB a try, but I understand if you do not continue on with the story. Cheers._

 _•Like all authors, I LOVE comments and feedback that are constructive and useful. If the intended comment is meant to inflame, then it will be deleted. Sorry guys, no trolls on the YMCB board._

 _•I do not own nor profit from Margaret Mitchell's beautiful characters. In accordance with producing a_ _transformative work, the source_ _copyrighted elements derived_ _from Gone With The Wind have been removed and_ _Your Mistress, Captain B- has been submitted to the US Copyright Office for copyright protection, thereby the author retains all rights to the original creative work of this story._

* * *

 _ **Chapter 2  
**_

 _ **Springtime, The Deep South, 1874**_

Black, fathomless eyes swept across the distant river banks of the Crescent City, teaming with the unspoken identity of the New South: the industry, the steamers, the docks. It spoke of a life being lived beyond the perimeter of his world. Behind him stood building after building, buffering the hurried steps of people seeking wares, services, and entertainment —bustling of life beyond him. He settled further into his chair, taking an occasional sip from his cooling cup of chicory, and wincing at the midday sun underneath the wide brim of his hat.

The blanket housing his stare was momentarily lifted. A disturbance of sashaying tulle, draped from the back of the living angel's organza skirts, and a graceful gait filled his vision for the second time that afternoon. Her slender waist, accentuating womanly curves, and the sheen of her golden tresses were a sight to behold. The delicate features of her countenance carried a distinguished air. There was a purpose about her —but they all had a purpose. She pursed her lips and tilted her chin, flitting her lashes in his direction. The creature painted a nebulous picture of beauty —Monet's _Impression, soleil levant._ Her loveliness, however subtle, was sublime. Would that it was enough. Was it enough to engage the interest of a man who, although could heartily appreciate her gifts, craved the sensation of a particular brand of poison coursing through his blood —to gaze upon a staircase landing and be struck down once again?

He shifted his focus, lifting his arm from the wrought iron table top, allowing room for a fresh cup of coffee to slip under his elbow. The aging proprietor of the cafe, Lisette Arnaud, wedged her girth in between the design of the scrolling ironwork of the chair next to him.

"Well, I'll be. Tis good to see ya up an' 'bout." Lisette extended her arms and cosseted Rhett's long fingers in between her leathery hands, disfigured by rheumatism and wisdom. "How ya doin' t'day, honey?"

"Fine, Setty. Just fine." The corner of his mustache lifted ever so slightly. "So, how is my best girl?" He raised her hand and brushed his lips across her braided knuckles, waggling his dark brows.

"Lawd Jesus!" Lisette cackled. Swatting his hand away, her gap-tooth grin broadened. "You's jest a no good rascal —that ya is." She hesitated, folding her hands in her lap. The chuckle alighting her eyes faded away. "Ima fetch ya somethin' to eat. Y'all skin and bones."

Rhett held his hand up, palm out, and shook his head. "Thank you, kindly, but I had already partook in a light repast." Rhett cast Lisette a crooked grin to soften his affront exhibited by Lisette's narrowed eyes and creased lips. He placed his hand on the rim of the cup and twisted the porcelain in its saucer, serving up a discussion of little consequence. "So have you seen the boy?"

"Ev'ry once in a blue moon." Lisette knowingly cocked her head. "He come an' go as he please."

"Is he in need of money?"

The wisps of silver and gray hair neatly wrapped in a bun, sitting atop her crown, bobbed in concert with her derisory snort. "Fo' money, he always be in plenty of need." Rhett pressed his lips together, rolled his eyes upward towards the heavens, and then down to the river.

"Honey, you's ben in N'Orlens fo' too long." Lisette laid her hand on top of his, stilling the perpetually rotating cup. "Now, I knows ya still grievin' fo' yer li'l angel, but ya can't fool an ol' fool.

"Yer sorrow is cripplin' ya." Her balled-up fingers beat a rhythm into the bosom of her dress with each syllabic utterance. "An' I knows ya carryin' more hurt than jest missin' the chile and it ain' 'bout the boy. What's ailin' ya, honey?"

Rhett's eyes, full of wistfulness, slid to the blonde circuiting the patio of the cafe for the third time. A small chortle bounced his chin. He crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head. 'The Coquette' would always be in fashion.

"Now Setty, why would we wish to spoil a wonderful chat between two dear old friends by laying our burdens out before us —to speak of the hurts that will never heal?"

"Have ta." Lisette ceased the cadence and shrugged her brows. "First time you's dry since ya ben here."

His eyes, absent of color and of emotion, scoured over Lisette's face, gauging her fortitude as she girded up for battle. His mouth flickered a grimace of capitulation as he reached into the inner pocket of his jacket for his cigar case, cast in 18-carat gold. After nearly seven years of grazing his finger over the inscribed words on the inside of the cover, the sentiment had begun to wear away. With a quick strike of a match against the sole of his shoe, a couple of deep puffs from his lips, and a plume of smoke veiling his visage, he turned to Lisette.

"I fear... that I have been struck with a severe and incurable affliction — _irony_. Before you, sits a worn out libertine, a brigand whose only allegiance was to himself. His days were once filled with the designs of exploring the uncharted path around the next river bend —new adventures to unearth, new places to roam, new pleasures to seek.

"Sadly, he is as you see, alone and adrift. Faced with his reckoning, he finds himself at the juncture of his life's sojourn. Once upon a time, he sought guidance from the heavens to map out his course for his next conquest. But now, he gazes up toward the sky, asking the constellations to carry him to that desired destination of peace and grace —only to discover that he has nowhere to go."

He leaned back, shimmying his broad body into the seat, and stretched out his legs underneath the table. Upon the conclusion of his loquacious oration, the wily scoundrel took a victorious drag of tobacco. The whiteness of his teeth veritably blinded as his grin grew beneath his mustache. And what a sight to descry! The self-satisfied smirk that stretched across Rhett Butler's mien was the smile of a man basking in the cleverness of espousing such eloquent effusions that the words were rendered meaningless, that the platitudes were mere diversions—

"How's 'bout goin' home ta yer wife?"

—until it got slapped off his face.

It was in the nick of time that his swift reflexes leapt to the fore. His hand swatted at the cheroot dribbling out from his gaping mouth, fumbling to catch the inflamed rolled-up tobacco leaf before it landed within the confines of his nether regions, inflicting an altogether different sort of nick.

"Ya jest up and left, didn' ya? Sakes alive!" Lisette threw her hands up toward the sky, plopping them back into her lap. "That po' chile."

"Scarlett?! The woman with whom you met on our honeymoon?! _Poor child?!"_ Rhett's brows rose in conjunction with his voice with the passing of each incredulous exclamation. "I believe your memory is faltering, dear Setty. I can't imagine anything that you could possibly recall about my ' _poor'_ , spoilt, vain, selfish, ' _child'_ of a wife that would elicit even a modicum of sympathy."

"Ise 'member her, an' she weren't no more but a chile. An' yer hard heart's a tellin' me that she never learnt ta live a righ' life."

"Ah, the crux of the matter, Scarlett and learning." Rhett swiped his tongue between the inside of his upper lip and gums as though trying to dispel a foul taste. "If the great scholars of today embarked upon cataloging all of the knowledge that Scarlett had _learned_ throughout her lifetime, there would not be enough words to fill a pamphlet."

"Ya spoke ta yer wife that way, did ya?! Treat her ig'nant?!" A powerful blast of indignation shot up Lisette's spine, propelling her backwards. Disgust rankled her face. "Fo' shame! FO' SHAME!"

"My wife was no saint!" The impenetrable black of Rhett's eyes burst open, incapable of concealing of the underlying rage roiling their depths. "Intellect aside, that 'poor child' grew to be an unscrupulous creature with the capacity to exact unparalleled cruelty." His caustic words, dripping with lye, spewed off his tongue. "Christ —without exception— she was the meanest damn woman I have ever had the distinct displeasure of knowing!"

"That 'cause she know nothin' else!" Lisette countered with a look of equal ferocity. "Do I'se 'member that li'l thing that ya was paradin' round here all them years ago, ya ask? I shore do. I SHORE DO! Lawd, I'd nev'r seen the likes of those eyes!"

"I would thank you not to remind me. After years of misery, I have finally broke free from the curse that those eyes have cast upon me and I have no desire to be to be under their spell again."

"Well, since ya was under they's curse all them times, what d'ya see?" Lisette continued on when her knitted brows failed to cajole Rhett away from his reticence. "I'se tell ya what I done sees. I looked in ta those eyes an' I'se prayed fo' her. Ya say that she cruel —that she mean? That's all she'd learnt!

"I'se done sees it all the time —all the time. Chillun wanderin' the streets wit' that same look 'bout their eyes. They's belly's empty. They's cold an' hurtin'." Lisette softened her lilt until it was no louder than a breath. "They's scared —so so scared. These chillun —they's grows mean, they's grows cruel —'cause they's learnin' ta su'vive.

"Do I'se 'member her, ya ask —I shore do —an' I'se 'member yaself. Ya took ta spoilin' her, carry on like she a baby doll. But her eyes done spoke ta Ol' Setty, an' I saw righ' ta her soul." Her bony finger began to pound the table, a rhythmic emphasis of her eventual assertion. "She done learnt how ta su'vive, too!"

"I will never take issue with Scarlett's past sufferings! But she is not the only living soul that has ever had the misfortune of falling on hard times. Others have struggled as much as her, and yet, they still managed to possess a heart that had not turned to stone."

"G'ON, NOW! G'on and tell me how she done did ya wrong! I knows hows it is, an' I reckon she done did jest that. But I'se knows ya —an' honey, yaself ain' no angel, either!"

Rhett opened his mouth but immediately snapped it shut. In the merest of instances, his unperturbed mask had draped his features, impressing that he had shuttered himself and would weather her litany of accusations. Lisette sat undeterred, glaring, waiting and praying. Nothing registered, neither a tick in his jaw, a hitch of his breath, nor a spark from his eyes. Nothing. Devoid of all sentiment, he emanated vacuity, until he lifted the cheroot to his mouth, revealing jittery fingers plaguing his once steady hand.

Lisette pounced. She clutched his forearm with such savagery that Rhett grappled with the hold on his cigar.

" _You's was her man!_ " She hissed through bared, gritted teeth. Her grip tightened. Digging her rough and broken nails into the linen of his jacket, she shook his arm with all of her aging strength. "An' you's was s'posed ta teach her how ta _love!_ "

* * *

"I suppose we need to have ourselves a discussion." Scarlett sat, prim and proper, on the edge of the settee in the parlor, her fingers absentmindedly skimming the lace design of a silk handkerchief.

"Yes, Mother." Wade stood before Scarlett with downcast eyes, attaching his chin to his chest and shuffling his weight from foot to foot.

"Well, Wade Hampton —go on— go on and explain yourself."

Wade clasped his hands behind his back, peeking up at his mother under soft, downy lashes.

"I'm sorry, Mother."

"You are sorry for what, young man?"

"For upsetting you."

"Is that all?" Scarlett jerked her chin backward, discerning her son's attitude. "Are you not sorry for giving Raoul Picard a black eye?"

Wade popped out his chin and locked a defiant glare with Scarlett's cool gaze. His head shook, whipping the tendril of hair falling into his eyes from side to side. "No, Ma'am!"

The vigor of his answer sent both of them reeling, seemingly taking the pair by surprise.

"Do you wish to tell me what your scuffle was about?" Wade peered at the imperious Scarlett O'Hara. His face cast off the look of the fierce internal debate he had waged against himself as to how much information he should reveal to her. He proffered his answer, silently shaking his head with vehemence once more.

Wade drifted his eyes toward the carpet, missing the brief flash of Scarlett's dimples. She crinkled her lips, tempering a smile. "If you had to do it all over again, would you still have given him a shiner?"

"No, Ma'am."

Scarlett's nodding head halted in mid—

"I'D HAVE BUSTED HIS BIG, FAT SMELLER, TOO!"

Scarlett's face plummeted and her stare, wracked with disbelief, fastened on to the uncharacteristically fierceness shading the florid features of her budding pugilist. Their heads simultaneously sank to the carpet, resting their shared gaze upon the delicate wad of white huddling near Scarlett's feet. Oh, woe is the poor, dainty handkerchief!

After a month of Sundays, they slowly raised their chins in unison. "Well, I imagine the time has come for me to mete out your punishment."

"Yes, Ma'am." Wade begin chewing on his bottom lip.

"For the next week, every night at suppertime, you will receive a second helping of your favorite dessert."

"M-m-mother?"

"Do you wish for me to extend it to two weeks?"

"But—but—"

"Keep it up, young man, and I will make you eat your dessert first." Scarlett swung out her arm and reached for Wade. "Come here."

Wade jolted from the force of Scarlett's hand tugging at his wrist. He tumbled forward, stumbling onto the couch next to Scarlett. Before he could ascertain what had taken place, he was completely enveloped in her arms. "How can I ever thank you?"

"For getting expelled?!" The screeching pitch of his outburst was so high that Scarlett's eyes cut to his face, ensuring that she was still talking with her son rather than Ella. In his mother's embrace, Wade gawked up at Scarlett in utter confusion. She brushed his bangs away from his eyes and kissed his forehead. "No, for taking care of me."

"But I didn't do—"

"I know that everyone around Atlanta is talking, and they are talking about me. It has always been that way and I suspect always will be. Raoul said some mighty hurtful things, did he not?"

Wade flushed and swiveled his head away from her. Scarlett's eyes dogged his movements, meeting his stare. "So he did have some hard things to say. Well, I don't care. What I care about is that you looked him directly in the eye and stood him down.

"Seeing as how you defended my honor and helped me recover when I... was..." Scarlett took in a steadying breath, "...unwell, I suddenly realized something. Do you wish to know what it is?"

Wade's head bounced down then up.

"There were so many years that it seemed all we could count on to fill our plates was a heaping of sorrow. With the exception of your Aunt Melanie, I never felt as though there was anyone that I could rely upon. But there you were, and now, here you are. It's a curious thing, but when I look back on all those times, you were always there beside me."

Wade shifted uncomfortably, hampered by Scarlett's arms and guilt. She kissed his brown locks on the side of his head.

"Raoul said that —his mother said that— that because of you, I would never grow up to be a gentleman."

"Well, I pity his mother." Scarlett spat out the syllables with precision, loosening her hold. "But I suppose that Maybelle can't expect more out of her boy than what little she knows. I have been surrounded by _gentlemen_ my whole life and I know the truth of it.

"A gentleman always keeps his boots bright and shiny whilst spouting off pretty poetry or some such nonsense," Scarlett voice grew stronger, verily sneering in repugnance. "A gentleman's head is full of learned notions but not a lick of sense.

"Let Raoul's mother cluck like an old hen and talk of raising her little 'gentleman'. She may as well dandify the town's half-wit and declare him one, too.

"No, sir! Any fool can lay claim to being a gentleman, but that does not make him a _man_. A real man does not have to be taught honor, he is born with it. A real man provides for his family." Scarlett's finger pressed against Wade's chest and her brows raised in concurrence with her point. "Don't misunderstand me, I will teach you to _act_ as a gentleman, but I will _raise_ you to become a man —and you, Wade Hampton Hamilton, will be a _great_ man." Scarlett pressed her forehead against his and breathed out her declaration awash with pride. "I just know it!"

She placed her hand on his back, nudging him forward and off of the couch. "Stand up. Let me take a good look at you." With his bottom jaw pinched between her finger and thumb, Scarlett jostled the lone tendril idling upon Wade's forehead, swinging his head first to the left and then to the right.

"God's Nightgown! You're a handsome devil!" She feigned distaste, releasing his chin with a chuck. "Lord! You should be standing here and telling me how sorry you will be for the passel of heartache that will be laid upon my door. Think of all that crinoline your poor mother will have to shuck through from all of those simpering belles, falling in a dead faint at your feet the minute you enter the room!"

Scarlett caught his grin prior to his head drooping in embarrassment. The inflamed tips of Wade's ears were painted in red. He squirmed, lifting eyes that sought understanding.

"Mother, are you and Uncle Rhett getting a di–divor—"

"I don't rightly know. But he's not with us, and his absence is telling me all I need to hear." She paused, absorbing his uncomfortable demeanor. "Do you miss him?"

"Sometimes... sorry, Mother."

"Do not apologize!" The snap of her retort forced another deep blush to creep across Wade's cheeks. Her lips thinned into a line, flashing a grimace of regret. She resumed with a softened edge to her sharp tone. "Would you like to see Uncle Rhett sometime?"

"I don't know."

"Well, I believe that you are old enough to make your own decisions on the matter. If you wish to visit Uncle Rhett or perhaps write to him, I won't stand in your way."

"Do —do you —do you miss him?"

"I do."

"Do you still love him?"

"That's a mighty grown up question and I'm afraid there is no simple answer." Scarlett frowned seeing the resolve harden Wade's soft features. She released a deep sigh: one part exasperation, two parts resignation. "Yes. I do still love your Uncle Rhett, but that matters naught."

"But if you still love him and he still loves you, then maybe he will come back home."

"Wade, my darling, since he has been gone, I've had plenty of time to think —too much time, in fact. You may not be aware of this, but before Rhett and I were married, we were the best of friends. And sometimes when you marry your best friend, you may come to find that even if you love one another, you just don't get on together."

"But if you still love him and miss him—" Scarlett's hand swooped under his chin, forcing his head up.

"He's gone."

Eyes of emerald, inflecting steel, met eyes of brown, reflecting worry.

"Now, I can't have you fussing so." Scarlett gently chastised at the sight of thick tears gathering in the corners of Wade's eyes. "You must understand that it's not all bad. With his leaving, I was left with a powerful reminder of a lesson that I had forgot.

"Looking back on the past does not do us a lick of good." Scarlett hiked her shoulders back and lifted her resolve. "I've lost Bonnie and then Melly, and finally, Rhett. If I continue to weep for everything that is gone, I'll lose sight of the blessings that I still have —you and Ella— and you are all I need."

Wade sniffled, running his sleeve underneath his nose. Scarlett reached for him, wincing when he retreated with a backward step. "We have to move on, do you hear? And I think it's high time that both of us stop looking over our shoulder, waiting for him to walk through that door."

Scarlett reached out her hand. Fighting against his stiffness, she grasped his arm and brought his hand up to her face. She splayed his fingers and placed them in her hair, laying them on top of the swollen remnants of stitched skin. "Do you feel that? Do you?"

" _Never... Again_." She found his other hand, placing a warm kiss in the bed of his palm. "I _will_ do right by my children. This—" she raised her eyes toward her injury "—will never happen again. _EVER!_ "

Wade gently removed his hand from her head, touching the bruises that continued to mar her face. "You're still very beautiful, Mother."

"I believe this was the good Lord's way of telling me that there is more to life than being the belle of three counties." She took a deep breath, extending the moment as she studied the face of her only son, rapidly growing up before her eyes. "Remarkable." she murmured, adding a slight shake of her head.

"Now, I believe the time is at hand in which we must discuss your future, young man." Scarlett concluded the conversation by clapping her hands on her thighs. Rising with an aura of authority, Scarlett's graceful movements led her to the credenza. She motioned for Wade to make his way over to the gaming table whilst she addressed him over her shoulder. "Well, which shall it be, VMI or The Citadel?"

"VMI! Yes, Ma'am!"

Finding what she had sought, she maneuvered back to the table. Waving her hand, she silently instructed Wade to take the seat on the side opposite of her. "Empty your pockets onto the table and sit yourself in that chair."

She kicked up a brow at his confusion. The left side of her mouth twitched, suppressing the urge to curl upwards and form a grin.

"You heard me. Go on."

Wade divested his pockets of five coins, three pieces of penny candy and one well-used band from a broken slingshot before taking his seat. Scarlett situated herself across from him, placing a deck of cards and a handful of change down on the table in front of her.

"How much money do you have?" Scarlett split the deck and began to shuffle, ignoring Wade's widened eyes and slackened jaw.

"But—but—"

"Well?!"

"Thirty-eight cents." The words fell out of his aghast mouth as he watched her deal cards in a manner that was nothing short of masterful. "But Mother —is this —are we...?"

"This—" Scarlett picked up the cards laying face down on the table before her "—is called 'Five Card Stud'."

"Is this poker?!"

"Yes."

"Isn't poker gambling?!"

"Yes." Scarlett folded her cards together and placed them back down on the table. "In accordance with our discussion as to your future, I believe that as your mother, I have certain responsibilities to uphold."

"To teach me how to play poker?!" Wade squealed, channeling the shrillness of his younger sister.

"Not exactly." Scarlett pinched her mouth together and bit at the laugh tickling the tip of her tongue. Lord! but the child's look of wide-eyed innocence was too precious for words. "The way I figure matters is that in order for you to be accepted as a cadet at VMI, we will also have to consider a boys' preparatory school. And that will necessitate you being away from home —and from me.

"So, I must choose what to believe when I receive your letters while you are away. I can convince myself that my darling boy speaks only the truth when he writes, declaring that even though he spends all hours of the day and night studying, he is penniless and starving. Or I could save myself a bushelful of money by teaching him a thing or two about gentlemanly pursuits."

"But isn't gambling against the rules?"

"I believe that is true. But I must make you understand, that when you are away at school, you will be on your own and the opportunity for mischief will be around every corner. When the time comes, only you, Wade Hampton, can decide whether or not you will spend your evening preparing for a history exam, or to join in an all-night game of cards. That is what becoming a man is all about.

"And besides, I believe that I do have an obligation to provide some guidance if you ever find yourself betting your weekly allowance against a full house. After all, you are still the stepson of the notorious riverboat gambler, Rhett Butler. And how would it look if I sent you off to school without you knowing the first thing about poker?"

"But— but— you know how to play poker?!"

"God Nightgown! How can you ask such a thing? I married Rhett Butler!"

Scarlett picked up her cards and held them up to her face, close enough to hide her hand but not so close as to hide her dimples. Her eyes twinkled with a rare light, emitting a beautiful mixture of love, pride, and tenderness.

The pair of mother and son remained still and contemplative until Scarlett was jarred from her reverie by the tipping of the table when Wade leapt from his chair. Rushing to Scarlett's side, he leaned over the arm and planted a quick but firm kiss on her cheek. "I love you, Mother." His boyish voice hummed in the air as he made a hasty retreat back into his seat.

Scarlett placed her fingers to her mouth, quelling the merest of sobs threatening to escape from her lips. She twisted her head toward the wall and away from Wade's adoring gaze. Her breaths were deliberate and deep while her throat visibly choked down a torrent of emotions. After countless seconds, she lifted a shaking hand, brushing over an errant tear trickling down her cheek. Turning back to her son, Scarlett's radiant smile reemerged.

"I love you, too." She whispered in a broken tone. Clearing her throat, her eyes shined as she tossed a penny towards the center of the table. "Now, ante up."

* * *

At times, in order for fortune to shine its glorious light down upon one's soul, it may need a little a fortitude to coax it along.

Lisette was gone, the coffee was cold, the breeze had died, yet Rhett tarried —along with the beautiful stranger.

Running his forefinger back and forth across his seamed lips, Rhett settled his trance on an old schooner, _Mon Véritable Amour_ , bobbing against the dock. Minute after brooding minute slipped by without his acknowledgment.

She floated by his table, brushing her skirt up against his chair. His eyes flickered and his lip curled at witnessing the singularly most abhorrent endeavor at prosecuting a sleight of hand. Her stumble appeared stilted and rehearsed. She righted herself instantly with a touch of excess, bordering on exaggeration. The paper, unwilling to slip gracefully from her grasp, was conspicuously tossed to the ground, tumbling its way across the cobblestone. The placidity of her countenance suddenly dissipated. Her crystal blue eyes bulged with exuberance and her diminutive fingers flew to her mouth, covering the delicate gasp released from her plump lips, rounded out into a perfect 'O'.

Rhett cleared his throat, camouflaging the deep rumble within his chest as she bent with a decided flair to rescue the piece of paper. With lashes covering half-closed lids, she angled her chin, and wetted her puckering lips. Satisfied with her powers of seduction, she coyly tossed him a devastating glance over her shoulder. Beyond a brief hesitation, she straightened her spine, redirected her course and proceeded over to Rhett.

"Pardon me, sir, but I believe that you may have dropped this." She purred, strategically placing the booklet on the table next to his arm. Rhett made no show of emotion as his finger grazed the cover, guiding his stare over a playbill highlighting a production at the local theater.

One might wonder if it was a mere coincidence or a sign from a higher being. The cover of the announcement that Rhett held in his hand projected the image of the lovely Marguerite Gerard, a locally renowned actress —and the veritable beauty that stood before him.

"Why, thank you, milady. You are too kind." Rhett stroked his mustache, covering a mischievous smirk. "I have yet to take in any theater productions since I have been in town and I am most eager to find some invigorating entertainment."

Rhett nodded his head, saying nothing more. Marguerite quickly schooled her features, catching her brows before they clamped together. She discovered herself perplexed by Rhett's disinclination to further the conversation or at least proffer a formal introduction. "Well, maybe that—" her gaze, ablaze with a deeply-hidden hardness unwilling to be censured, directed his black eyes towards the paper "—will be to your liking."

Pirouetting on her heel, she left Rhett with another captivating pose and an unmistakable invitation, "and _maybe_ we'll meet again."

"Maybe." Rhett tipped his hat at the swish of her retreating skirts. "I wish you a good day, madame."

Countless breaths and heartbeats later, Rhett reached for the playbill with a wary hand. "So this is the life of an old blackguard and what that life entails when he is seeking female companionship." He murmured to himself, snapping the corner with a flick of his finger.

"Well, Rhett, ol' boy," a rueful smile formed upon his lips, "it appears that ' _The Taming of the Shrew'_ won't be the only piss-poor performance that you will have to endure this evening."

* * *

© 2017-18 Olivia E. Landry. All Rights Reserved.


	4. Pralines

**Disclaimers:**

 _•I need to reiterate that my goal at the onset of YMCB was to not sanitize Rhett nor Scarlett which invariably means that YMCB will not be everyone's cup of tea. I appreciate readers that are still willing to give YMCB a try, but I understand if you do not continue on with the story. Cheers._

 _•Like all authors, I LOVE comments and feedback that are constructive and useful. If the intended comment is meant to inflame, then it will be deleted. Sorry guys, no trolls on the YMCB board._

 _•I do not own nor profit from Margaret Mitchell's beautiful characters. In accordance with producing a_ _transformative work, the source_ _copyrighted elements derived_ _from Gone With The Wind have been removed and_ _Your Mistress, Captain B- has been submitted to the US Copyright Office for copyright protection, thereby the author retains all rights to the original creative work of this story._

* * *

 _ **Chapter 3  
**_

 _ **Late Fall, New Orleans, 1874**_

"He come 'round 'bout an hour or so ago."

"Where is he?" Her hand fumbled for the vanity, determined to stabilize her teetering as she lifted herself with caution from the bench.

"He's in him quarters. Jed'iah done fetch him his mail."

"Help me dress. Quickly!"

"He says he not to be bothered."

"Hush, girl!" The fervid outburst forced her hand against her throbbing forehead. Marguerite stumbled backwards into the comforting support of the table. Jutting her finger towards the silk and fine linen strewn about the settee and on the floor, her eye lids clenched together as she took a hard swallow. "I do not pay you to preach on me about decorum! Fetch my wrapper!"

"No, you sure 'nough don't pay me," Milly mumbled through a curled upper lip, "but he do."

Marguerite collapsed down on to the cushion of the bench. With all due care, she twisted her neck to ensure Milly's obedience, only to be stung by the morning sun slicing through the panes of glass, bearing forth her damnation. "Close the curtains." The harsh light hurt her eyes—her pride—blazing down upon the top of the nightstand, highlighting the ignominy of her ludicrous situation.

In the evening prior, a nebulous idea solidified. Together, they would rediscover mutual pleasures—a bottle of the most superb champagne, direct from Louis Roederer's cellars, and a thorough recitation on amorous delectation. At twilight's conclusion the light of day, along with her hopes, dimmed. The night found her whiling away the hours depleting a bottle of brandy and a box of pralines. Milly would be discreet in the removal of the evidence, but it mattered naught. His elusiveness was a bottom fact.

In the dawn of their relationship, she anticipated that their lovemaking would be a trial that she must endure. In the cold, sober wake of reality, her jaded impression was eradicated, leaving her bereft and mortified. She had taken other lovers, younger lovers, but it was him—his strong arms, his skilled fingers, his demanding mouth, his bruising thrusts reaching her innermost depths—that she desperately craved.

He was back in town and he stayed away.

Minutes later, and after a haphazard toilette, she rushed across the gallery.

"He asked not to be disturbed, Madame." Jedediah stood guard near the door. His door. The door that closed his bedroom chamber—himself—off to her. Another affront to her vanity.

"This is my home and I will speak with him, wherever and whenever I choose." Marguerite enunciated, meeting the challenge in Jedediah's eyes. She grappled for the brass knob and pushed her shoulder into the chest of the loyal yet conflicted valet. "Let me pass."

Once inside his suite, Marguerite inhaled a sharp breath and paused at the threshold. The vision she beheld, an amalgamation of power and grace, mesmerized her. Rhett stood with his back facing her. His crisp, white shirt yielded to the muscles flexing across his sinewy back as he rummaged through the mahogany armoire. The fresh scent of soap and shaving cologne still lingered in the air.

Her eyes cut across the luxuriant room to the leather reading chair in the corner. His attire from the night before was draped over the arms. The carpet underneath her feet served to muffle her wary steps leading to the chair. In satisfying her curiosity, she surreptitiously lifted the sleeve of his coat and sniffed, discerning that his evening's entertainment began with liquor and tobacco. Yet, she remained unsatisfied. Raising his trousers, her suspicions of how his evening had ended were confirmed. Marguerite reeled backwards, assaulted by the musky combination of Eau de Cologne and indiscretion.

The low-down, dirty son of a bitch.

"Rhett, darling?"

"Good morning." He slid veiled eyes over her in a perfunctory manner, allowing one side of his mustache to lift for a brief stint.

Marguerite waited for a breath, but Rhett stepped out from behind the gleaming door panel without encouraging further discourse. He held a pair of folded shirts in his hand, making his way towards the gaping day bag resting on his bed.

"I understood that you have been in town since Wednesday." Her objective was to inquire, yet she accused.

"Please accept my sincerest apology for not making an appearance. I can only excuse my shortcomings by offering that the ties that bind me to this city run as deep as the Mighty Mississippi. When I am here, there are never enough hours in the day—or night—for me to offer my regards to those select persons of which I hold in the highest esteem."

"I missed you last night."

"Indeed?" Rhett chuckled softly, but a hard glint flashed in his inexplicable gaze. "As much as my hubris would wish otherwise, I have been informed that you have enjoyed ample consolation, whereby relieving you of the misery brought about by my extended absence."

"Forgive me for so indecorous a remark." Rhett's smile inched outward at the sight of Marguerite's lips sputtering to form an explanation. "My intention was not to place you in a state of unease. I suffer no illusions in regard to your fidelity—nor any expectations, for that matter."

Rhett set the shirts on the bed among his other travel necessities. He glanced up at Marguerite but did not cease his organizing. "If you would permit me, my dear, I would wish to extend some knowledge that I have acquired throughout the years."

Marguerite clenched her teeth and lifted a defiant chin, granting him unspoken permission to embark upon a less than genteel subject matter.

"You are free to consort with anyone of your choosing, but I wish to advise you on some of your questionable habits."

"If with whom I consort with is of no concern to you, then my conduct should be of no consequence as well."

Rhett contracted his lips into a thin line at her tetchiness. "So be it, but I will offer my ill-gotten wisdom all the same. Your fashion for imbibing to excess will be to your detriment. You have experienced spells in which your recollection is faulty, have you not?"

The pressed handkerchief against her lips was futile in stifling her gasp.

"In other words, you have blackouts. Is my assessment correct?" Rhett continued without the advantage of a confirmation or a denial. "My only wish is to caution you of such dangers. Be mindful of your consumption, especially when you are favoring the company of some rather unsavory characters."

The rise of Rhett's brows on his forehead spoke of his censure, directly clashing with the resentment crystallizing behind her eyes. Her lower jaw, swollen with animosity, crept forward.

"You're leaving, again—already?" Their joined gaze scanned the contents of the bed laid out before them.

"Yes. I must make my way back East. I fear that circumstances have arisen that have rendered this trip unavoidable."

"I see... I confess, I often wonder why trouble yourself in letting this house when Chateau LeMoyne would better suit your needs."

"Ah, I see you have been rehearsing again." Rhett slowly straightened his spine, wearing that vicious smile oft-pulled from his repertoire. She came to understand that the offending smirk was reserved for her alone, unleashed whenever he wished to stoke her wrath. "Tell me, dear, is petulance the emotion that my little actress has been mastering for me today?"

"Go to hell."

Rhett exhaled a soft guffaw through his nose and returned to his packing. Marguerite looked on in the quiet of the moment. He was offering her less than his usual laconic self that morning.

"I would wish to accompany you, Rhett." She broached the forbidden topic through a rose-tinted pout, glistening with sticky sweetness. "I would not be a burden."

"In what capacity, dare I presume?"

"I suspect that I am at your mercy, Captain Butler, for it is only you that can deign to christen me with the appropriate title!" She spat in another unfortunate flash of temper.

"I have always endeavored to instill my wishes without guile. You were aware of my predilections from the first moments of our affiliation." If possible, Rhett appeared even more placid than his wont, with the exception of a slight passing of an unidentifiable emotion fluttering across his face. He sighed, seemingly indisposed, and placed his hands on his hips. "I suppose in considering that you are now ensconced in one of my homes—and considering that I have been remunerating your extensive list of creditors—one might suppose that I would consider you to be my mistress."

In voice and stature, Marguerite remained immobile. Each second grew heavier from the silence until Rhett broke the impasse. "It would be unwise for you to attend me in my travels. Again, please accept my apologies in my inability to accommodate your desires.

"Besides, it was my understanding that you were auditioning for a traveling company. Am I to assume that your designs did not come to fruition?" Humiliation disguised as indignation followed the turn of her countenance. Rhett effused a look of gratuity, offering up alms to ease her guilt at being caught out. "Ah, forgive me. I misunderstood and I stand corrected."

Her gaze hovered over his bed, dwindling of personal possessions. Her interest stirred at a pair of familiar items. She recognized the small, ornate wooden picture frame and the empty envelope, worn from excessive handling, marked with the most peculiar crescent shape crease in the bottom right corner.

Unwilling to relinquish yet another opportunity to breach his inner sanctum, Marguerite nodded toward the revered daguerreotype waiting to be placed in his bag.

"She is very beautiful."

Rhett snapped his head up. His eyes, void of the persistent dullness, sparked with emotion.

"Yes. My beloved Bonnie was a most beautiful child."

"Is she... does she—"

"She died." Rhett's tone cut into the awkwardness with ruthless precision.

"Oh, Rhett. I'm sorry." Marguerite soothed. "She resembled you."

"Hardly." Rhett murmured. His gaze followed his quivering finger, tracing a delicate path along the intricate design of the border. "Except for the blue of her eyes, she was in every way imaginable her mother's daughter."

The marked softening of Rhett's stony features did not escape Marguerite's attention. Daring a flirtation with bravery, she furthered her inquisition. "And her mother? Is she also—"

"She's gone."

"Sh—she died, too?"

Rhett shot a quelling glare at Marguerite, challenging her to press him to either confirm or deny, to further explain something—anything—about his baby's mother. His reproachful look underscored finality of their discussion, forcing her tongue into retreat. She stared, hapless, as his movements quickened. "If you will pardon me, I must conclude my preparations. I have business that I must attend en route to the depot—before my departure."

"Might I join you? I would greatly appreciate a lovely stroll about town." She persisted in the void, "I could window shop while you are tidying up your affairs."

Rhett sighed, releasing the hold on his shoulders. His contrived smile favored a grimace.

"My dear, nothing would provide me with greater pleasure on this glorious morning than your delightful company."

* * *

© 2017-18 Olivia E. Landry. All Rights Reserved.


	5. Handkerchief

**Disclaimers:**

 _•I need to reiterate that my goal at the onset of YMCB was to not sanitize Rhett nor Scarlett which invariably means that YMCB will not be everyone's cup of tea. I appreciate readers that are still willing to give YMCB a try, but I understand if you do not continue on with the story. Cheers._

 _•Like all authors, I LOVE comments and feedback that are constructive and useful. If the intended comment is meant to inflame, then it will be deleted. Sorry guys, no trolls on the YMCB board._

 _•I do not own nor profit from Margaret Mitchell's beautiful characters. In accordance with producing a_ _transformative work, the source_ _copyrighted elements derived_ _from Gone With The Wind have been removed and_ _Your Mistress, Captain B- has been submitted to the US Copyright Office for copyright protection, thereby the author retains all rights to the original creative work of this story._

* * *

 _ **Chapter 4  
**_

 _ **Late Fall, Atlanta, 1874**_

The noxious stench—a billowing cloud of apprehension—pervading the parlor struck Scarlett with an appreciable blow. Forced into retreat, she faltered at the threshold from the onslaught of the long forgotten yet too familiar scents of leather, liquor, and tobacco—the scent of him.

"I thought Pork had already killed that viper slinking around my garden."

"Well, a fine 'hello' to you, too, my pet." The deep, slow resonance pressed against her, forcing her eyes to close, and prickled her skin.

"I don't recall inviting you into my home, Captain Butler."

"I must take umbrage to your insinuation that my presence is an affront to propriety. As your devoted husband, I believe that a formal invitation is unwarranted." His lip twisted up on one side of his mouth. "Be that as it may, before you sits a man who has come not from a sense of duty but of pleasure. Upon your most urgent—and unconventional—behest, I hastened to Atlanta. You always did have a flair for the dramatics, my dear."

Scarlett thinned her lips into a thread and stiffened her back. "That was over six months ago, Rhett. I thank you for your concern—it truly warms my heart—but the clouds have come and gone, and I have managed to weather the storm without you. We both know that you most certainly have somewhere else to go, so please do not tarry on my behalf."

Rhett answered her provocation by relaxing deeper into the velvet-upholstered armchair, lifting his foot to rest his ankle on the top of his knee. Quick as a tick, he cocked his brows and flashed her an insolent grin. Scarlett crossed her arms over her chest, anchoring her shoulder to the door frame and her line of sight to the fireplace mantle. She held her reaction to an exasperated sigh, a slight shake of her head, and an eye roll— mustering nothing more.

In the passage of time that marked a neverending year, an abundance of pride mixed with reserve emerged between them, seizing their tongues. The languishing quiet was spent in communion, greedy stares lurking behind furtive glances.

Irony played a role in the couple's outward transformation. The subtle stripes of gray woven into the deep charcoal cloth of Rhett's suit was set off by a matching silk vest. The white of his shirt was all the more stark when accentuated by a tie as black as coal. His body had shed the excess weight and the silver distinguishing his temples shimmered when captured by the light. The shade of his skin tone had deepened but did nothing to conceal the dark wariness plaguing the underside of his eyes. He appeared more esoteric, less affable, more aloof. In demeanor, if not in actuality, Rhett Butler was a gentleman.

For the year past, vanity had slowly released Scarlett from its tangles. She stood in the doorway draped in a stylish evening dress, the color of the richest plum that turned onyx when cast in the shadows of the iridescent material. The basque covered her to the neckline and the bustle of her skirt was unusually diminutive. Though underwhelming in adornment, when worn by Scarlett, the dress overwhelmed in elegance.

Whatever Rhett surmised from her appearance, Scarlett would never allow that her vainglory was the culprit in her recent penchant for understated attire. Her reversal of attitude was decidedly set on a warm spring morning when she chanced upon her reflection in Kennedy's storefront window. Bedecked in Godey's latest plate and laden with all of the necessary fripperies, Scarlett stared with her mouth agape at the creature in the window.

He would never know that the dress she wore that morning was a deliberate attempt to cloak her disappearing frame and wan appearance. He would never see how the ornamentation merely served to exacerbate her thinness. He would never know that her body, unable to support the weight of the current style, ached by day's end. He would never know how tired she was of the artificiality. Her manner was regal, somber, detached. In demeanor, if not in actuality, Scarlett Butler was a lady.

"How are you, Scarlett?"

There was a subdued quality, a gentleness, in his tone that she did not recognize—but she would never know. She would never know how lovely her raven hair against her ivory skin shone in the soft brilliance of eventide. She would never know how the simple turn of her head, how the incandescence of her emerald eyes could mesmerize a man still. She would never know how his breath caught the moment he espied her.

Scarlett reached into her pocket, producing a delicate white fabric edged with lace. Smoothing the handkerchief over her fingers, she held out her hand for Rhett's eyes. "As you can clearly see, I am doing just fine."

Scarlett swept her skirt across the parlor with a dignified air, situating herself on the divan across from Rhett. She gazed at him with jaded eyes.

"Really, Rhett, if it was peace that you were looking for, I simply can not understand how your search would lead you back here. That is the reason we have lawyers—to keep the peace."

"I believe the time has come for us to discuss the termination of our unsuccessful business venture, Scarlett."

"Your intentions were right plain the night you walked out on me. If you wish to divorce me, then by all means, leave the papers on the hall table on your way out."

"My purpose for coming to Atlanta is to speak with you."

"What would you have me say, Rhett? Should my knees be blessing the floor, begging you for mercy as you dole out my penance?"

"As enticing as that image may be, I would be remiss in extending an olive branch, allowing us the chance to tie up some loose threads and make an amicable separation."

"Amicable?"

"Friendly."

"What kind of fool-headed talk it that? Are you concerned that I am going to steal all your money? Blacken your name? Ruin you?" Scarlett's glare spoke of the timorous hold she had on a flurry of emotions tightly clasped between her shaking hands. She bit her lower lip, raking her gaze over his expression, indecipherable and silent.

Left with no forthcoming answer, there was but one answer.

Scarlett dropped her eyes to her hands plucking at the folds in her skirt. Her voice watered and dulled. "I see. You have finally found your one true love, and since I am the wife, I am the burden that has come between you and your sought after grace. How ungenerous of me."

Scarlett kept her sight within the bounds of her lap, refusing to listen to what Rhett's eyes had wished for her to hear. She would never know. A spasm in his jaw muscle precipitated a fleeting sneer that dissolved into his habitual smirk.

"I would never wish to hurt you, my dear, but yes, I must impart that there is someone else. A divorce would allow me to accommodate her while pursuing my own happiness."

"It sounded as though you said 'her'. Am I hearing correctly? Is there just one woman? My goodness, I reckon time catches up with everybody, even those that consider themselves ageless."

Scarlett's effective parry vaulted Rhett upright in his chair. He blinked and corrected his look of befuddlement.

"Oh, my dear Scarlett, even with those embers glowing in your bewitching eyes, jealousy does not become you."

"You are mistaken. It is not envy that I feel for the poor girl, it is pity."

"Forgive me, I have forgotten. I humbly allow that there may be cause for me to reacquaint myself with some of your baser emotions—however exhausting I may find that to be."

"We have not seen each other for the better part of a year and yet it is I that exhausts you? How can that be, Rhett? Maybe your age is catching up with you, or maybe it is your new lady friend that tires you so." Scarlett's coo had an undeniable bite to it. "Tell me, darling, how old is she?"

"Her age is of no consequence, but if you must know, she is indeed younger than you."

"How shocking."

"Don't be cross, Scarlett. The dear girl can not be faulted for so heinous a crime as being young and beautiful." Rhett reached into his jacket, settling back as he gathered his cigar case. "As a matter of supposition, if by happenstance the two of you should ever be in polite company, I would imagine that you and her would form a peculiar sort of kinship—for once upon a time, you were young and _quite_ beautiful."

A rapid beat of a pulse and a swift breath later, the atmosphere filled with a toxic mixture of hate and hurt. Rattled by his venomous strike, Scarlett pulled her lips between her teeth and turned her quivering chin away. With the gaping wound left unprotected, the Rhett of old reared its head.

"I allow, the moment that I had encountered her, I do believe I have never been so stricken by such beauty."

Rhett leaned forward, rolling the cheroot between his fingers, watching her with an intensity akin to branding welts onto the flesh. Taking in controlled breaths, Scarlett kept her gaze affixed to a nick on the leg of the gaming table.

"Well, she must be lovely, Rhett." Scarlett's voice had weakened.

"Oh, she is indeed. Eyes as bright as the blue in the sky. Hair the color of corn silk, shining like gold in the sun. And forgive me for being so gauche but Venus, herself, would have been envious of the girl's bountiful charms." His eyes traversed a long, cruel sweep down Scarlett's meager body.

"Have I mentioned that she is a renowned actress? Although one would think she was a singer by profession with her angelic voice—or possibly a ballerina. She is the embodiment of grace." With each varnished insult, his lips hiked up the rolled cigar between his teeth until it was at full erection, very nearly vertical and pointing towards the ceiling.

"Well, she sounds simply delightful—"

"The glow of her porcelain skin."

"and lovely—"

"Her slender arms and delicate fingers."

"and charming—" Scarlett's chin inched forward.

"Mmm, and dare I say, the sway of her voluptuous hips."

"and—" concealing a nefarious glint, Scarlett eyed Rhett through slits "— _FAT._ "

Flaccid went the cigar.

"I beg your pardon."

Scarlett glided her hands down the front of her bodice, smoothing pleats and straightening buttons. Her lashes fluttered as she summarily dismissed Rhett with an off-handed shrug over one shoulder. "She's fat."

Rhett pulled in the head of the cheroot hanging precariously off of his bottom lip. His gums shoved the belvedere across one side of his half-open mouth to the other.

"She's not fat." He clipped out in a flat tone before resuming his vigorous gnawing of the beleaguered leaf of tobacco, well-nigh sawing off the tip.

"She sounds fat."

"I suppose that if the woman judging another lady's figure could not even fill out a child's pinafore, they might be ill-qualified to recognize true allurement when it is before them."

The lacy, white silken pendulum dangling from Scarlett's fingertips swung to and fro whilst her head swayed in harmony, "F—A—T. Fat."

"Don't be a child, Scarlett."

"I heard that you were spending your time in New Orleans. Is that where she is from—the place of our honeymoon? Do tell how you met, Rhett. Did you woo her? Did you bring her shiny doodads—flowers—bonbons?" Scarlett lifted her bright seraphic eyes towards the heavens and sighed. "Silly me. Of course you wouldn't buy her bonbons—in New Orleans, of all places. I reckon you got her those confections that they make over there. Now what were they called? They were made with pecans. What were they—pre—praw—?"

"This petty effrontery is beneath even you, Scarlett."

"PRALINES!" Scarlett whooped, slapping her thigh. "I'll bet she just _adores_ pralines! Do let me know your address, Rhett. I'll be sure to send her a box, along with my regards—or rather, condolences."

"Smooth your feathers, Scarlett." The words, rolling around in hypocrisy, fell off of Rhett's patronizing tongue. "Surely, your vanity is not so swelled as to believe that you are still the cutest little trick in shoe leather." Rhett chucked the mangled stogie into the fireplace.

"Speaking of New Orleans, do you recall what you told me on our honeymoon, Rhett? Hmm? You said that if _I_ got _fat_ , you would divorce me and take a mistress. My, my, Captain Butler, it would seem that you are in quite the pickle."

"Scarlett, I implore you to conduct yourself with some decorum. Frankly, I find your juvenile antics most tiresome."

"Pray tell, Rhett, now that you are a _bonafide_ gentleman, what do you do at suppertime? Do you offer your dearest love that last piece of pie—" twirling her finger at the carpet, Scarlett growled, "or do you just wrestle on the floor for it?"

"SHE'S NOT FAT!"

Rhett slapped both palms against his forehead and dragged his hands down his face. Peering through his fingers, he studied his bodacious wife. The impeccably proper Southern lady could not hide the delectable pucker clinging to her lips. He placed his open hand over his mouth and wiped away a small chuckle threatening to unmask his straining impassivity.

Clearing away the incredulity lingering in his throat, Rhett arose from the chair and sauntered towards the sideboard.

"Well played, my dear." Rhett awarded over his shoulder. He scanned the area around and about the cabinet. "Would you care to join me in an apéritif?"

Scarlett threw her arms up into the air and scowled at Rhett, her exasperation bubbling over. "I don't recall extending you an invitation for supper."

"Again, I am still your husband, albeit in name only, and my presence may be unwelcome but it is inescapable. I still own the deed to this horrific monstrosity—which barely passes for respectable, even when juxtaposed against a den of iniquity—and therefore an invitation is understood."

Shifting his attention to the credenza, Rhett began opening and closing doors, ducking his head into the shelves.

"Where is my brandy?"

"Gone."

"The Bordeaux? The crystal cruet?"

"Gone."

"The Baccaret set that I had taken extraordinary pains to have shipped over from France?"

"Gone."

"Gone?" Rhett's brows flew up, landing near his hair line. "Am I to presume that on one of your capricious whims you discarded thousands of dollars in premium liquor along with exclusive crystal?"

"Presume to your little old heart's content. It's _all_ gone."

"Gone. Hmpf." Rhett grunted, fumbling around the inside of his coat pocket. His brows held their contemplative position as he produced his sterling silver hip flask. Scarlett followed his initials engraved into the cold metal as they caught the light on his way back to the armchairs. Rhett took a swig and held out the spirits towards Scarlett. His brows lifted in askance. She shook her head.

"No?!" A deep rumble shook Rhett's chest. "Oh, my dear, out of all of the cockamamie things that you have done in your lifetime, I would never have divined that you would have become a fully fledged member of the Temperance Society!"

Scarlett pinched her face into a knot and abruptly stood. She sashayed up to Rhett with a tad more swagger in her gait, a subtle cue that her engagement had commenced in earnest. His hand crept forward, shaking the flask in eager anticipation.

"As a matter of fact, Rhett, I am not a member of the Temperance Society." With all due care, Scarlett accepted the decanter from his hand. "For all that you know, I may be the Atlanta chapter president—and if that were the case, I would kindly thank you to leave my house." In one fluid movement, Scarlett pulled back, wound up, and pitched the entire contents of the flask at her husband's crotch. "And you can take your liquor with you!"

Ever alert, ever lethal, and ever dangerous, the scoundrel clamped his hands on the arms of the chair, catapulting his feet up into the air. Pulling his knees into his chest, Rhett lifted his body, suspending his rump six inches above the seat. With his splayed feet hovering in mid-air and the soles of his shoes waving a hardy 'hello' to Scarlett, the midwife was not necessary to complete the imagery.

"You know Rhett, if you stayed in that position for a couple of hours and grunted a few times, maybe you'll birth yourself a conscience."

Rhett groaned, kicking his legs forward and propelling his body up and out from the sopping cushion pooling with bourbon.

"Oh, clumsy me," Scarlett needled, flapping her pocket lace at him. "Isn't life odd? Here we are in a crisis and it is I that is holding the handkerchief." He loured, holding out his palm against the proffered cloth, electing to use his own kerchief. Scarlett smothered a giggle as her blackguard of a husband wiped away the droplets from his trousers while shaking out his legs like an old hound with a hitch.

"My consolation for the dissolution of this marriage will be in that I no longer must suffer your childish choler." Rhett retook his seat—the dry one. "And what a novelty it shall be not to be imposed upon by the inane, inconsequential topics of discussion that so enthralled you."

"So, your dear girl is a bluestocking as well as a remarkable beauty. Of what topics do you discuss with her, Rhett? Politics? Poetry? Philosophy?"

"Philosophy?! I would have never imagined that a word containing more than two syllables would ever escape those pretty little lips. I'm astonished, my pet. Might I wonder if you have any notion of what philosophy means?"

"Why you—" Scarlett clamped her jaw tight and closed her eyes for a brief moment. Rhett leaned forward, his stare intensely gauging her movements as he commenced jabbing at her with impunity.

Her expression wore every embattled thought struggling to rise to the fore as she fought to gain control over her reaction. Scarlett sat still as a stone until her shoulders lifted and her chest expanded with air, addressing Rhett with aggravation. "You have always claimed to know me so well, Rhett. As I sit here, I can't help but wonder, why would you, a worldly man, ever wish to marry a silly child like myself?"

"I will never deny that you are a smart woman, Scarlett. However, save for business matters, you have always refused any opportunity to be further enlightened."

"There was a word that you mentioned some time ago. What was that word that you spoke of so philosophicaletically?" Scarlett's nose and forehead twisted in the same nonsensical manner as her septenary-syllabic word. She elucidated at the sight of Rhett's lip curled up in puzzlement. "You recall that word, Gotta-something-something-rung, or something or another? It was about gods and destruction, or some such nonsense."

"Gӧtterdӓmmerung."

"Yes, that's the word. How do you spell it?"

"G-an 'O' with diaeresis-T-T—" Rhett briefly pressed his lips together. "I fail to take your meaning as to why you insist upon knowing its spelling."

"Why, so that I can look it up in Wade's big, old fat dictionary." Scarlett fluffed the Chantilly lace peeking out from her sleeves, adding a little extra Southern charm to her melodic lilt. "The way I figure matters is if I look it up in that smelly old book, I can learn how to say it—right proper, too. And if I learn how to say it, maybe I could learn what it means."

"Let us suppose that you do learn the spelling and meaning of Gӧtterdӓmmerung, what purpose would such knowledge serve?"

"Precisely." As rapidly as the illusive coquette had been invoked by Scarlett, with no less urgency, Illusive Coquette hoisted her skirts and fled the room. "What good will it do me?"

"It's called knowledge, gained through learning, Scarlett. Knowledge is the catalyst that provides the means for personal growth, which in turn leads to financial success. Let us not forget, financial success gains us silk frocks and chemises."

"But what good will it do me?"

Rhett tilted his head to one side and folded his arms across his chest.

"Let me ask you something, Rhett. If I learn how to say all of those fancy words just like you, will that guarantee that Ella will never have to lace up boots that pinch her toes? Do you think that if I learn what those big words mean, that it will keep yams off of Wade's supper plate?"

"I'm impressed, Scarlett. In making your point, you have crafted a logical and persuasive argument."

"I don't believe I have. Time and again, you have reminded me of how unfortunate you were to be saddled with an ignorant and stupid wife. Did it ever occur to you that my ignorance was born from not having the time to care?

"How can it be that this ninny sitting across from you has managed to keep her store running in a recession while Stucky's has gone out of business?"

"Recession. My, another highfalutin word. And what do you know about the recession, Scarlett? What have you done with your money? I would venture to suppose that the mattress in my bedroom is now a makeshift vault, stuffed to the gills with gold coins."

Rhett belted out a guffaw. Scarlett's expression told him that he had struck the mark. "I declare, Scarlett, when it comes to your mind, intellect and common sense are two opposing factions that shall never cross paths. However, as valid as my observation is, the point is moot, for both will always succumb to your gumption."

Scarlett pulled a face—part horror, part indignation. Glaring at Rhett, her skirts, along with her hackles, rose with haste. The fierce clicking of her heels resonated throughout the house while she made her way into the hall. After a brief pause, each subsequent step grew in intensity upon her reemergence into the parlor.

Scarlett stepped in front of Rhett and prodded his chest with his hat. "Well, you have kept to your word, though I suspect that your appearance did nothing to keep the gossip down, rather made tongues wag all the more. I would be most obliged if you _now_ took your leave."

Rhett accepted his bespoke, pristine charcoal gambler from Scarlett's outstretched arm, making little effort to conceal his mirth. Drollery twinkled in the black of his eyes and his lips struck a pose meant to test the fragile hold that she had on her equanimity.

"As eager as I am to showcase my new chapeau to all of the good citizens about Atlanta, I have only just arrived and I wish to visit the children before I make my way. I trust that you can extend a small token of charity in allowing me to be in your presence for just a titch longer."

Scarlett dug her fingernails into her palms as Rhett adjusted his position in the armchair—the dry one—with all of the time and not a care in the world. He held the brim of his hat in both hands, turning the rare specimen at varying degrees, ensuring its admiration from all angles. "During my sojourn while in London, I commissioned Lock himself to make this hat. Mighty fine workmanship, would you not agree?"

The skunk.

"Leave—this—house."

"Oh, my pet, even if I were desirous to hurry my departure, I fear I can not. I find myself quite beguiled by an overpowering rush of nostalgia. Indeed, my reverie hearkens back to one particular day in a library when I happened upon a _bonafide_ lady in the throws of a very impressive conniption. I daresay, it has been so very long since I have had the pleasure of witnessing one of your fits of pique."

"Well then, what do you say, Rhett," Scarlett snatched the hat from his hands, "for old time's sake?!" One-half step behind on the uptake, Rhett leapt to his feet. Scarlett released her coiled torso with a animalistic yowl, heaving his hat across the room with all of the strength of a year's worth of pent up emotion.

The estranged couple stood rooted to the floor, evident that their understanding lagged in precious seconds. Their eyes landed upon the final destination of the incendiary article fouling up Scarlett's parlor.

"UNCLE RHETT, YOUR HAT IS ON FIRE!"

"Come and greet Captain Butler, children." Scarlett hazard a deliciously wicked pout at a topless Rhett Butler as she settled herself back onto the couch. "And do be sure to thank him for his generosity," she dimpled, wiggling her pantalettes deeper into the cushion. "We were plumb out of kindling."

"But Uncle Rhett, your hat!" Ella pointed at the formerly untainted gambler, collapsing onto itself and crumpling to soot.

After a few moments of solitary reflection, marked by bouts of choking and wheezing, Rhett pounded his fist against his chest and eventually regained his composure. His twitching mustache held back his thoughts while his enlivened eyes shifted down the front of his trousers, back to the fireplace, over to Scarlett, and finally settled on the children.

"Don't you fret none, Ella, honey. I'll see if Pork can find me another hat from my wardrobe." Rhett bent down near the armchair and retrieved two wrapped packages, placing them on the end table. "Come here, children. I have something for each of you."

"Ella!" Scarlett snapped as Ella bolted from the doorway towards Rhett. "Young ladies do not run in the house!"

Rhett lobbed a disingenuous smile across the room. Scarlett flushed a deep shade of red and dropped her eyes to the carpet. Ella flew over to Rhett and scrambled onto his lap, wiping away the strands of ginger hair that had escaped her braids and fallen into her eyes.

"My goodness, Ella. I can count maybe five, six, seven—or no—one hundred and seventeen new freckles that have fallen from the heavens and landed upon your cheeks."

Ella giggled, beaming up at Rhett with an infectious smile. She swung her legs back and forth, staring at him with utter adoration in her hazel eyes. He encircled her in his arms and aided her in untying the twine that held together the package's wrapping.

Rhett jerked his head to the side and pressed his ear into his hiked up shoulder at the sound of Ella's squeal.

"Oh, Uncle Rhett, it's the most terribly, awfully, wonderfullest dolly in the whole wide world! Thank you!" Ella wriggled, inching closer into his chest. Rhett smiled, bending forward for Ella to give him a kiss on the cheek.

"You are most surely welcome, sweetheart. When I saw this doll in the window, I knew of only one special little girl that would love this doll as it should be loved."

"Oh, Uncle Rhett. I do! I just love her to bits!"

"What shall you name her?"

"I haven't thought of a name." Ella's gap-toothed smile teetered. She glanced at Scarlett with uncertainty, imploring, "can I ask Mother to help me name her?"

"Of course you may. That is, if your mother is willing to aid you in such an auspicious task."

"A what?"

"Yes, Rhett. Please tell Ella what the word 'auspicious' means."

"It is a fancy word for 'important', Ella."

"Oh."

"Would you be so kind as to spell it for her, Rhett?"

Rhett squinted his eyes from beneath his lowered brow, intent on castigating Scarlett, only to have his admonishment banked by a wall of hostility. Seated next to Scarlett on the settee, Wade countered Rhett with a look of such ugliness that it belied his true tender nature.

"I have something for you, as well, Wade." Rhett hesitated, clearing his throat and reaching toward the package on the side table. Wade silently acknowledged Rhett's address by inching closer to Scarlett. His cheeks were blistered crimson.

One year after the departure of Bonnie, Melanie, and Rhett, the evidence was indisputable. The magnitude of the tectonic shift in the family dynamic was as pronounced as the sweltering the air surrounding them. Scarlett was no longer protecting her timid little boy.

"Wade!" Scarlett muttered through her lips, appearing abashed as she lowered her lids. Scarlett cocked her head towards Rhett and placed her hand on Wade's shoulder, nudging him to rise from the settee. "We must always be gracious when presented with a gift." Scarlett spoke softly but firmly, encouraging him forward for a second time. "Go on, darling."

Wade shuffled in half-steps towards Rhett, telling him that he was not approaching him willingly—that he was doing this for his mother. Rhett forced a pretentious smile to his lips, holding out the present for an unbearable length of time.

"It's an atlas." Rhett leaned forward using the book in his outstretched arm as bait. "I had thought that we could go through it together. It would be a pleasure to discuss with you much of my travels."

Once placed in his hands, the book plummeted, hitting Wade on the leg. The weight of the bound, gilded pages strained his halfhearted grip.

"Thank you... sir." His downcast eyes continued to thwart Rhett's overtures. Wade twisted his neck, rubbing his chin across his shoulder, and looked back at his mother. She was wearing _that_ smile.

It was the same smile that she wore when folks were being mean and asked her about Uncle Rhett; when he had to tell her that he got into another fight; or when Ella wasn't invited to that little Whiting brat's tea party. He had seen his mother smile like that whenever Mrs. Merriwether or Mrs. Meade cut her on the street. For months, it seemed like that was her only smile and it always shook at the corners. When he would see that smile on his mother's face during the day, it meant that he would be sitting outside her bedroom door at night, hoping that she wouldn't cry for very much longer. It was all because of Uncle Rhett that Mother had started smiling like that, and he was supposed to stand there and pretend to be happy that he was getting some stupid book.

Wade squared his young shoulders and swiveled his head back to meet Rhett's eye dead-on.

"Again, sir, I thank you for this mighty fine gift and offering to show me the places that you have been, sir—but I know that you are a very important man, sir, and I would not wish to take up any more of your time... sir."

"You are not importuning me, Wade." The dullness veiling Rhett's eyes for the better part of a year had returned. "As for the matter at hand, I would be very much obliged if you would spend some time with me while I am in town."

"Thank you, sir, but it is not necessary." The book hung from Wade's white fingertips. He walked back over to the settee and dropped the atlas onto the cushion as if he had just handled something that had been dredged from human sewage. "Mother, I have an exam tomorrow and must finish my studies. May I please be excused?"

"Supper will be in one hour, sharp, young man." Scarlett addressed Wade with her one of her 'because I am your Mother' expressions. "Take your sister with you and be sure to help her with her cursive writing."

"I want to stay with Uncle Rhett." Ella cried.

"No, Ella. Uncle Rhett and I need to have a grown up talk. Join your brother."

"No."

"Ella. Go."

"NO!"

"ELLA! I will not have you disobey me! Go with Wade!" Scarlett threw her finger across her body, jutting it towards the door. "And don't you dare dawdle, Missy!"

Scarlett mouthed a cuss word, grimacing at the sight of Ella's contorted features, an antecedent to a round of high-pitch tears.

"Your mother is right, Ella. We need to discuss some very important matters." Rhett spoke quietly against her temple. He rubbed her back and gave her a gentle nudge. "Please go with your brother."

"Come with me, Ella." Wade walked up to Rhett and took Ella by the arm, pointedly averting his eyes away from his elder.

Ella shrieked, digging her heels into the carpet and forcing Wade to drag her with him as he made his way back to Scarlett. At the divan, he bent down and kissed his mother on the cheek. Hovering over Scarlett, Wade kept his eyes attached to the floor, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

"Everything will be fine, darling. I promise." Scarlett whispered reaching up and rubbing away the worry creasing his brow. Scarlett took Ella's hand and pulled her a step closer, kissing her on the forehead and wiping away the tears trickling down her freckles. "Do as you're told—and by the by, when you come back down for supper, I would like to see you wearing a dress that is not colored pink."

"But if you make me leave, I won't ever see Uncle Rhett again!" Ella sobbed out every other word in between hiccups.

"We'll have ourselves a good long talk about that—but later. Go on."

Wade craned his neck and locked an icy glare with his stepfather. Rhett tightened his jaw and silently reminded Wade that any questions as to his place in the family would be most assuredly resolved with a journey to the woodshed. Wade was unequivocal in his response. He walked over to the atlas laying on the couch next to Scarlett and jammed his hand into the middle of the pages. Holding the book by what bulk could fit into his fist, Wade allowed the book to fall open and dangle down his side. He cast one final look of unmitigated disdain at Rhett before retreating to the hall. The back cover thumped against his thigh and the hanging paper rustled together as he led Ella out of the room without so much as a by your leave.

Clasping his hands together, Rhett rested his elbows on his knees and hung his head. He studied the red and gold floral pattern swirling across the carpeting while Scarlett's misty eyes remained transfixed on the coordinating portieres. The constriction in the atmosphere shattered when a distinctive noise emanating from just outside of the parlor jolted the pair out from their maddening quietude. Scarlett brought her eyes, swimming with apology, up to meet Rhett's at the resounding thud of a very heavy book being dumped upon the marble tile in the foyer.

"Upon my arrival, I had wished, most fervently, to have Wade and Ella back into my life, but now I might wonder if that is possible, considering Wade's acrimony." His voice betrayed his weariness as the aging blackguard allowed his façade to slip away. "However, I must temper my disappointment. One can only suppose the copious amounts of poison that was spoon fed to the boy in the past year." Rhett spat at Scarlett.

"You brought this misery upon yourself!" Scarlett seethed. "It is apparent to me that you have no notion of what you left behind. Wade and Ella considered you to be their father and yet you never once considered how your absence would affect them."

Rhett pulled out a cigar from its case. Tapping the end on the closed lid, he wagged his head in his typical cocksure manner. "So, am I to gather that it is _my_ knees that should be blessing the floor as I am begging _you_ for mercy?"

"This past year has been hard on everyone in this family, Rhett. I have forgiven you for so many things, but I don't know if I will ever be able to forgive you for the hurt that you have put upon my children."

Rhett distorted his mouth, baring the white of his teeth. He erupted from the chair and flung the unlit cheroot into the fireplace with undue force. "I did not want to leave Atlanta—I HAD to leave!"

"As you have so often proved!" Scarlett balled her hands pounding her fists into the cushions, her gaze following Rhett as he paced in front of the fireplace. "In the year's time since you had left us, not once did you bother to contact the children—no visits—no letters—not even a single telegram!"

Rhett halted and faced Scarlett running his hands through his hair, throwing a haphazard glance around the room, deflated once again. "Perhaps I was wrong. I should have contacted you." He dropped his chin to his chest and sighed. "Maybe I could start anew and make amends? I believe now would be a fine time for us to discuss visitations and correspondence." Rhett offered Scarlett a plaintive look.

"I appreciate the gesture but I do not welcome your offer." Scarlett squared her shoulders, rallying herself for the coup de grâce. "I would ask that you have no further contact with Wade and Ella."

"Under what pretense?" Rhett drew out each word in an unsettling manner. He stormed up to Scarlett, bearing a darkness that shaded his black eyes.

"It is for the best."

"Christ, you are a hateful woman!"

He lowered his broad body and placed tremulous hands on the back of the settee, effectually caging Scarlett between his arms. He leaned in close, meeting her eyes and filling her lungs with the heat from his elongated breaths. "A few moments ago, I was the bastard who abandoned his children, but within one short turn of your mind, I am now the bastard who is no longer permitted to see them?"

"I have my reasons." Common sense told the petite woman to cower from his overbearing nearness, but Scarlett leaned forward. In both fortitude and in fury, they were equals. "I thank you not to foist yourself upon me, Captain Butler."

"Pray tell, how it would be in the best interest of the children in keeping them from seeing their father?" Rhett breathed. His drawl, smoother than the whiskey coating his tongue, lapped her skin. "Lie to me, darling."

"Get off of me this moment or I shall scream."

Rhett thrust his arms up into the air in mock surrender, taking two steps back and away from Scarlett.

"I made a promise to do right by my children and I intend to keep my promise."

"Ah, so you have found your religion and are now seeking absolution. My apologies for assigning a nefarious motive to your intentions."

"This is not about me." Scarlett scoffed. "Whenever you breeze into town, devilment and gossip are always dogging at your heels. I can't have the trouble that you bring knocking at my door."

"That is a right fine idea, Scarlett. Keep the big, bad wolf away—but who will protect the children from you?"

"Burn in Hell!" Scarlett leapt to her feet.

"I have—many times over—and it is damn hotter than you think."

"In just a few years, Wade will be the same age as I was when I married his father and Ella will be coming out shortly thereafter." Scarlett swallowed hard, her words were being strangled. "They will know what it entails to be a part of a loving family."

"The sentiment is admirable, Scarlett, but pay heed. It would be most imprudent if you do not reflect upon your own conduct before casting aspersions whilst elevating yourself to sainthood."

"Ella will not make the same mistakes as I have.'

"I have no doubt that if it is in your power to grant Ella the charmed life of a Southern lady, it shall be done. It is a certainty that she will have ample guidance in executing her marriage contract."

"She will have no reason to marry other than for love."

"For love?! Yes. Of course she will marry for love, but with your limited understanding of such matters, I'd be most curious as to how you will ensure that _she_ will not throw it all away."

"I had hoped that in our time apart, you would have found a cure for that of which has been ailing your tongue—but I can see that you are just as nasty and cruel as ever."

"If in your mind, nasty and cruel are selected nomenclatures ascribed to someone who speaks the truth, then I plead guilty to all charges."

"And the truth of the matter is that it is your forked tongue as to why I will not have you around the children."

"I stand chastened. I can offer no excuses for my behavior. When it comes you, Scarlett, an omnipotent force always infiltrates my state of mind, taking possession of my thoughts and deeds."

"Thank you for speaking so very prettily, Captain Butler. You have done quite nicely in justifying why I am asking you to leave. Good day!"

Scarlett lifted her skirt gesturing to pirouette on her heel. Before she made a full rotation, Rhett grabbed her by the arm and spun her back around, bringing her to within inches of his body.

"What of Wade? He is becoming a man and will need guidance."

"Your concern is all kindness, but not necessary. I will provide Wade with everything that he needs."

"You? Are _you_ going to teach him how to fire a gun without shooting his foot off? Will _your_ proficiency in riding side-saddle lend to the proper instruction of how a man should take his seat?"

"He doesn't need you!"

"Don't be a little fool in allowing your burgeoning maternal instincts to cloud your practical nature, Scarlett." Rhett shook her arm causing her entire body to quake. "The extent of your worldly knowledge would not usher Wade into the next week, let alone adulthood. He needs a _man_ in his life."

"Wade needs nothing from a cad like you!"

"Of what noble edification on life or love could you possibly instill in a young man—other than how to lie, cheat and steal just to hear the sweet sound of a cash register drawer opening?!"

"How dare you!" Scarlett gasped. Her fingernails clawed at Rhett's hand, tearing tiny white crescents into his skin while she fought a losing battle against his painful grip on her upper arm. "Let me go!"

Like an old, comfortable coat, Rhett shrugged himself into a contemptuous smile—the one that always ignited Scarlett's Irish. Her skirts dragged beneath her as she bent her knees for leverage and writhed her upper body. Struggling to extricate herself from Rhett, her flailing succeeded only in setting off a mirthless laugh thundering throughout his chest.

"Any manner that I see fit would be preferable to you!" She hissed through clenched teeth. "What would you have him learn—how to rut a whore with your boots still on?!"

In one swift move, Rhett clamped his arm around her waist and snatched her up from the floor. Pinned to his chest and hanging from his body, a spark of fear doused Scarlett's features, rendering her limp. Rhett tangled his fingers into her hair and drove his forehead into hers. Their eyes locked together, a tumult of emotions raging between them. His mouth—so close—and poised to strike—forced her to swallow his broken pants.

"I should break your goddamn neck!"

But it was she who struck first. Scarlett lifted sooty lashes, exposing feline eyes aflame with a cunning glint. Rhett caught his breath when she pressed her mouth against his and grazed his lips.

"Use both hands, darling, and hold on real tight," she whispered hotly, "because you had better make damn sure that I'm good and dead."

A porcelain figurine on the reading table continued to wobble in disbelief seconds after the settling of the dust mites in the air. Shaken by her abrupt release, Scarlett caught the edge of the table and righted herself before crumpling into a heap. Rhett's assault to the stand followed, nearly toppling the table as he lumbered backwards after shuddering Scarlett off of him like a chill. He took two more paces behind him until his heaving shoulders found the support of the fireplace mantle. A rough hand down his mouth did nothing to smooth over the alarm etched in his features. Scarlett's hand fumbled for the arm of the couch and steadied herself as she collapsed back into the divan.

And once again, standing so precariously close to the edge, they stared at each other from across the Rubicon.

"I truly believe that there will come a day in which we could forgive the other for all of the sins that we committed." Scarlett whispered. "I pray for that day."

"As do I." The uncomfortable realization of their situation stole his remaining words.

"Do you have any notion of how much longer you shall stay in Atlanta, Rhett?"

"I have no set itinerary. I am at your disposal."

"Thank you." Her tone sounded watery and slight. "Rhett, would you be so kind as to make a call on Uncle Henry before your departure?"

Rhett frowned as his eyes scanned over Scarlett's face.

"Should I be expecting him to call me out?" Rhett wiped his expression clean, attempting to infuse some levity into their discussion.

"N–no." Scarlett wore her smile, the one that cut up Wade's heart. "That was the reason I had asked you to come to Atlanta this past spring. Uncle Henry helped me put together... my... my offer—and if you find that everything is agreeable, all that is required of you is your signature."

"The divorce papers have already been drawn up?"

Hairpins sparkled in the gaslight as Scarlett lowered her head and nodded. Rhett pivoted on his heel, electing to face the fireplace. He gripped the mantle with one arm and placed the other on his hip. With his chin buried into his chest, Rhett closed his eyes and released a harsh breath.

"Have you thought this matter through, Scarlett?"

"It is my only chance to make things right."

"You will be shunned."

"Ever since... well, everything, I have received only a handful of calls. Wade has been expelled from school twice for fighting and none of the children are allowed to play with Ella. So you see, Rhett, I am already ruined," her voice choked as she spoke of the culmination of all that she had sown—"and I have disgraced my family."

"Am I to surmise that your intended remedy calls for your removal from Atlanta?"

"All that I am asking of you is to respect my privacy, and to keep our divorce a secret for the time being—and refrain from returning to Atlanta... for at least a year."

"And those are your terms? That is all that you are willing to divulge? Forgive me, Scarlett, but I find your words inadequate." Inspirited, Rhett thrust himself from the ledge and confronted Scarlett. "Since we are not yet divorced and as your husband as well as the financier of this new life that you are embarking upon, I believe that I still possess the right to know of your future plans."

"No. You do not. From this day forward, my whereabouts and my well-being are no longer any concern of yours. Once you have signed the papers, you will have forfeited all claims to me and my children."

His eyes, brittling with wistfulness, drunk in the sight of her, her lustrous hair, her tender lips, her magnolia-white skin, her cat-like eyes—those goddamned, beautiful cat-like eyes. Rhett clear his throat once more before he could look away from her.

The silence cut deeper. The hurt grew louder.

"I want to be happy, too, Rhett."

The finality weighed heavier.

Rhett looked on, all manner of impassivity had been eradicated from his mien. He flexed his fingers until the constant agitation made them tremble. He clenched his hands into fists and shoved them into his pockets.

"And happy you shall be. But why all of the subterfuge, Mrs. Butler?" A cold shiver erupted at the base of Scarlett's neck. The unpredictable winds of his nature chilled the air, bringing Rhett nearer to her, but his carriage held neither sadness nor resignation of the prior moment. His stride was swift—his bearing, agitated, as he circled her. "Soon you will be a free woman, Scarlett and there will no longer be any impediment for your greedy little hands to grab that of which your heart has always desired. Would it be too presumptive on my part to offer you my congratulations and wish you a long and _happy_ life?"

Scarlett gasped. It was always fleeting, but she knew that his calculated blow was merely the first strike. He always drew blood. There was a sense about him that was unnerving. He stepped up to her in relentless pursuit, filling the space between them with a desperation that only they shared.

"I must say, my dear Mrs. Butler, as I look around this humble abode, at the table you set, at your person—all of it—swathed in my money, I can not help but be curious as to what could the esteemed Ashley Wilkes offer you?"

Scarlett hid her broken composure behind her handkerchief. She held the cloth with both hands, pressing the corners into her cheeks just below her eyes.

"Answer me." His urgent whisper demanded.

Scarlett buried her hands within the folds of her skirt, twisting the handkerchief through her fingers. After a short stutter, her lashes rose, exposing brilliant emerald eyes that shone in the glow of the soft evening light. And his breath caught for a second time. Scarlett pulled in her bottom lip between her teeth, a daunting effort to remain poised before she would utter a reply. Yet, it was the fall of one stubborn tear that breached the dam of her reserve.

"Kindness." She breathed. And then she shattered.

Scarlett clasped her handkerchief over her mouth and doubled over. Her shoulders shook, convulsing with the burden of each painful breath. She twisted her head to the side so that her cheek rested on her leg, allowing her to take deeper exhalations. Eventually, relief came as her breathing regulated and her pulse slowed. Her eyes drifted shut, but snapped open at the feel of a weight bearing down across her shoulders. Scarlett bolted upright.

"Darling." Rhett was next to her on the divan, wrapping her in his arms and bringing her into his embrace. Scarlett shook her head 'no', pulling away from his closeness that always overwhelmed her. His taut muscles would restrain her. His heavy breaths would pound against her. His trembling thigh would disturb her. No. She needed the comfort that came with a steady heart, a soft body, and an enveloping warmth.

She dug her hands into Rhett's chest, pushing against his grasp until she was free from her confinement. Scarlett wedged her body against the arm of the settee, creating a thin chasm between them. Before a protest was born, Rhett had captured her hand, gently lacing his fingers through hers. Affixed to their entwined hands, Scarlett's gaze stared in wonderment. The tips of her fingers did not reach his knuckles. The shocking contrast of her pale skin against the coarse, black hair overlaying his bronze fingers startled her.

Following the movement of Rhett's ministrations, Scarlett held her breath as he held her hand. He bowed his head, his lips tracing every digit from the knuckle to the nail, pausing only to place a lingering kiss on the tip of each finger. When the final kiss came, he lifted his head, revealing eyes churning with pain. Scarlett reached in with her other hand and caressed his cheek, catching a tear with her thumb. Rhett clasped her wrist and brought her palm to his lips, placing a kiss in the bed of her hand. Would that she could someday forget the warmth of his mouth, the softness of his lips, and the feel of his mustache exciting her skin. The consideration brought another sob to the back of her throat.

"Don't giggle." His utterance no more than a breath. Scarlett choked out a soft laugh and, together, they relived a bittersweet memory.

"Please let me go, Rhett."

Rhett relaxed his hands, affording Scarlett the opportunity to escape from his grasp. His jaw muscle clenched sporadically and he cleared his throat.

"I didn't know what to expect when I came back to Atlanta, but I suppose that is due to you, Scarlett. You never did, and no doubt, never will cease to amaze me."

"Will you visit Uncle Henry before you leave Atlanta?"

Rhett stepped in concert with Scarlett's melancholy.

"You said that you felt nothing for me but pity and kindness. Please, Rhett. Please be kind. You have moved on and have found someone else to love. Please allow me to do the same. I am trapped here."

Rhett shifted on the couch, inching forward towards the edge. He steepled his fingers together and rested his elbows on his thighs.

"Please. Rhett?"

"I do solemnly swear to stop by Henry's office—on one condition." He sounded pained and uncertain. "I will provide you with time enough for you to settle your affairs here in Atlanta and establish yourself elsewhere. However, when the time comes, I would bid that you revisit our estrangement."

"How much time do you need?"

"I am at your mercy, for that decision is yours alone to make. All that I demand of you is that you keep to your word and correspond with me with some degree of regularity."

"Of course I will, Rhett." He watched her eyes lie with every word.

Rhett bent over and laid his head in the cradle of his clasped hands.

"I suppose that there is nothing more to say." he murmured. "Gӧtter— damn."

"I do have something that I must say." Scarlett braced herself on the seat of the couch, standing up without the support of steady knees. Pressing her hand against her torso, she stepped around and in front of him. "After today, I can not foresee any circumstance in which we would be forced to endure the presence of the other. Would you grant me a moment of your time so that I can speak my peace?"

Rhett shifted the weight of his upper body on his legs and raised his head from his hands. He beheld her underneath hooded eyes, pitch dark and clouded with trepidation.

" _'If you had only let me, I could have loved you...'_ Do you remember, Rhett? You had spoken those very words to me—the night Melly died—that is what you had said— _'If you had only let me'_..."

Rhett rubbed his temple between his forefinger and thumb, stretching the skin taut. "The night Miss Melly died, the only thing that I can recall with conviction is that I said one too goddamn many things."

"Well, I will never forget it. I came directly from Melly's bedside and rushed home to be with you. I wanted to tell you how sorry I was for being so foolish—for not understanding my feelings—for so many things." Scarlett's voice was soft but steady while her tears began to stain the front of her basque. "I was so eager to reach you. I reckon that I had thought that because I had finally come to understand that it was you whom I truly loved, that perhaps there was a chance of you loving me."

"Don't do this to me, Scarlett."

"I stood before you and offered you my love. I held out my heart to you—and you discarded it!"

Rhett winced as he cleared the tightening in his throat, followed by a hard swallow.

"I want you to remember one thing when you are at Belle's tonight, seeking your solace from some other woman who reeks of stale perfume and her last customer. You remember this, Rhett Butler—you could have found your comfort with me, in my arms, and I would have loved you just as gently and tenderly—"

Scarlett folded her handkerchief and placed it on the settee next to Rhett.

"—if _you_ had only let _me_."

The door clicked shut, Rhett slowly lifted his head. He unbound his fists, freeing the vise that held his restraint. The color in his fingers returned. Blood began flowing through his knuckles that were corded and white with tension. He splayed his fingers, scrutinizing an old scar on the back of one hand. Rhett turned his wrists over. Scarlett's entire hand could fit into his palm. His chest heaved.

He held nothing.

* * *

© 2017-18 Olivia E. Landry. All Rights Reserved.


	6. Stetson?

**Disclaimers:**

 _•I need to reiterate that my goal at the onset of YMCB was to not sanitize Rhett nor Scarlett which invariably means that YMCB will not be everyone's cup of tea. I appreciate readers that are still willing to give YMCB a try, but I understand if you do not continue on with the story. Cheers._

 _•Like all authors, I LOVE comments and feedback that are constructive and useful. If the intended comment is meant to inflame, then it will be deleted. Sorry guys, no trolls on the YMCB board._

 _•I do not own nor profit from Margaret Mitchell's beautiful characters. In accordance with producing a_ _transformative work, the source_ _copyrighted elements derived_ _from Gone With The Wind have been removed and_ _Your Mistress, Captain B- has been submitted to the US Copyright Office for copyright protection, thereby the author retains all rights to the original creative work of this story._

* * *

 ** _Chapter 5_**

 ** _Late Fall, Atlanta, 1874_**

"Why don' you go on up to your room, honey? I'll have Clarence fetch you somethin' to eat."

Rhett pulled his gaze away from the achromatic wisps swirling above his head and directed his attention on the familiar hand insinuating itself upon his person. The nails were trimmed and manicured but hinted at brittleness. He followed the path of the tips, dipping and bending between the folds of cloth, as they stroked his sleeve. The callus pad of the index finger lagged as the others forged a path up his forearm. The veins on the back of her hand were appreciable, protruding from the ever-increasing diaphanous skin—the true markings of her age. Making its ways over his bicep, her palm brushed across his shoulder. Rhett's eyes drifted shut at the touch of her hand upon his skin as she wound her fingers around his neck. She slipped off of her stool, placing her soft body in between Rhett and the bar. His chest remained suspended from a deep breath he held. Rhett mechanically lifted his cigar to his lips and positioned his eyes up towards another newly formed curlicue of smoke.

"It's been a long time and it is sure good to see a friendly face. You look well." Although meant for her, to those not privy to the verbal exchange, it appeared that Rhett's compliment was intended to congratulate the bartender, Clarence, for skillfully adjusting his sleeve garters. His lips closed around the cheroot that his hand had faithfully brought back to his mouth.

Another elongated drag on the cigar meant another elongated silence, and another silence was another valuable moment that had drifted away.

"I have heard discussed the enthusiasm for the German lager," Rhett tipped up his chin and nodded at a handful of blob-top bottles from the Atlanta City Brewing Co. strewn across the back shelf of the bar. "What has been your success with bottled beer?"

"You're a goddamn fool, Rhett Butler."

Nary a twitch registered on his face. He lowered his chin acknowledging the brutality of her nails burrowing into the skin on the inside of his wrist. His slumberous reverie awoke to the sound of a tiny jingle. A shiny, silver bauble adorning the bracelet she wore scraped the counter.

—a bell.

Extracting his arm, Rhett released a mirthless chuckle festering within his breastbone. His manner was of contemplation, ruminating on the futility of the trappings begotten from sentimentality. In a year awash in apathy, his features occasionally bore witness to the onset of mental atrophy. However, drowning as he was in his purgatory aptly named ennui, Rhett managed to ratchet up the corner of his mouth, pasting on a ghost of that old, familiar sardonic grin.

"You wound me, honey. I happened all this way just to see my dear girl, hoping and praying to bask in the glory of her unbridled joy as she beheld my countenance. Dare I query your tender feelings? Was my perilous my journey o'er land and sea for naught—to have stones thrown at my tender heart? Tsk. Tsk."

Belle rucked the crimson outline of her lips together and crumpled her forehead. The effect upon her aspect was immediate. Years of heartbreak collected in the crevices etched between her thinning brows far more than the liberal coating of powder that she had hastily applied upon the revelation that the wayward blackguard, Rhett Butler, had invaded her sporting house. A quick toss of her burnished curls and he was chastised rather than encouraged.

"Ah, Belle. Pardon these rusted manners pitting the shine on this old, worn-out rogue." Rhett wagged his brows, derisive of his own sincerity. His reached out a finger and tinkled the silly charm on her wrist.

"In my time, I have seen the likes of damn near every kind of scoundrel walk through them there doors. And out of all them bastards, I only knew you to be a straight shooter, Rhett." Belle scoffed, her tone patent with injury. "Don't lie to me now."

"Would that I could say what you dearly wish to hear." Rhett folded his arms and hunched his shoulders over the counter, all former pretense of sanguinity slipping from his broad back.

"It's been a mighty long time, honey. Never s'pected to see you 'round these parts again."

"Scarlett and I had to... we had to..." Rhett wavered, stubbing out his cigar languishing in the well-littered ash tray, "... come to an understanding."

"You look like you're fit for a neck stretchin'," Belle chucked her chin up then down his slumping frame. "I reckon that this here understandin' was on her terms—and she ain't 'bout to give you no divorce." Belle lovingly stroked the lapel of his jacket. "Aw, honey, I'm sorry."

"Indeed. She had set the terms."

"Do you s'pose that you might ever be comin' 'round this way again?" Rhett eyed Belle from his periphery, noting the strain in her voice and the childlike vulnerability that had escaped through a crack in her brassy veneer.

"I can't say where next I'll be or if I shall ever have a place in Atlanta." The gaslight threw the pulsing muscle in Rhett's tightly clenched jaw into high relief. "By the by, thank you for contacting me. I know not of the great pains it must have been for you to pen that letter, but I am most grateful. Is there anything of significance that has occurred thereafter?"

"Nothin' out of sorts other than silly gossip." Belle lips fired off a quick shot, neglecting to address his true intent with a constant plucking at the lace poking out from the bountiful neckline of her bodice. "Nothin' that would interest you."

Rhett leveled her with an questioning stare. She shifted her gaze away from the heat of his suspicious look.

"I heard that you were in N'Orlens for a spell." Belle ceased her agitated flutterings with an extended breath. She reached out and calmly rested her hand atop his. "I also heard that you have a new gal—"

"Ah, Belle." Rhett groaned. He flattened his fingers, pulling his hand out from underneath her weighty grasp.

"Well, knowin' you like I do, she must be real lovely."

Rhett pressed one finger down onto the polished wood surface of the bar top, picking up a speck of dust and flicking it away. "She..." he completed his thought after another deep exhalation, "...suits my needs."

"And how you figure she's so different from—from—" Belle let out a strangled utterance, as though the mere mention of the word would scald her tongue. Nevertheless, it was understood, and its inference consumed the space between them with a cloud rancid with guilt and hurt.

"Please understand, Belle, it is not who she is, rather it is what she represents. When my body and soul seek respite, I am afforded unencumbered relief—an assuagement that she willingly bestows upon me without the millstone of an entanglement weighing upon my back."

"And how is your havin' another mistress not an entanglement?"

"The girl is familiar with a specter. To her, I am nothing more than a rich man brandishing a defective character and a questionable past which lends credence to what little knowledge that she does possess. As for our relationship, her sole ambition in life is to secure herself an attachment—whether it be to my pocketbook or my person, I cannot say."

"But what do you desire?"

"Nothing."

"Does she make you happy?"

"Again, I want for nothing."

"Well, then I wish you Scribbler's luck!" Belle spat. "Go on and grab yourself fistfuls of _nothin'!"_

Rhett clasped his hands together remaining mute, further stirring the bright red tint inflaming Belle's cheeks.

"You are a goddamn fool if you think this gal will do you a good turn! The likes of her poison will go down your throat no better than what you been spittin' out! 'Tis different is all!"

"The girl and I are in accord. We essay pleasures in the absence of love and hate—and a pleasure that is void of those parasitic emotions grants a wretch such as myself the clarity of which is otherwise obscured as one walks that fine line."

"My, my, my. What a real fine lady you have found for yourself—happy just to have your triflin' coins tossed at her feet. How 'bout if'n she wants more—like your name? What about yourself, if'n one fine day her sweetness has turned you sour? If'n all she wants is your money, then she's no more fittin' than your darlin' wife!"

"I should have never abused your generosity with my troubles for so long. Forgive—"

"No!" Belle threw herself off from her perch. "I must be the one to ask for forgiveness." Lunging herself against Rhett's side, she clutched his coat sleeve. "Oh, honey, I'm sorry. I spoke out of turn. You must know, all I want is to ease your hurtin'."

"In my reflections, the girl has been a boon, Belle. As our arrangement has crystallized, I have discovered that in comportment and beauty, both her and my wife are very much alike, and yet when it comes to matters of the heart, she is Scarlett's contradistinction. The dissimilarity to Scarlett that her presence begets has served me well. I have observed with my own eyes the contrast in shading used to color the scruples of both women."

Belle shifted her weight and began to twist the heel of her right boot into the floorplank. Rhett nodded, acknowledging that her fidgeting was born from unease when he spoke above her comprehension.

"Pray, excuse my ramblings, honey." Rhett placated. "It's been a year, Belle, and what I hold in my hand is a perversion of the truth and what was once a balm to my weary heart no longer soothes me. For the longest time, I have shone the brightest light down upon Scarlett's faults and yet her shadow was not enough to cast off my own sins."

"You put too much on yourself—always have. I won't let this stand. I won't. In all my days, I have never know'd a woman so cold and hard as Mrs. Butler."

"And with your vehement defense of my character, it is apparent that my constant decrying of my sorry plight has irrevocably corrupted your opinion of Scarlett. Indeed. In my tireless crusade to sully her name to all of Atlanta, my success is complete."

Rhett broke his sight away from wooden shelf bowing from the weight of liquor. His mouth twisted into a rueful grin. "I have been in town less than a week and continue to be astonished by one of life's quixotic turns. I simply fail to reconcile how it is that my shrew of a wife, who is universally reviled, has managed to inspire the deepest devotion from those that hold her most dear. I daresay, even the fervent affection oft-displayed towards the late Mrs. Wilkes pales in comparison."

Belle jerked up her chin with an incredulous snort.

"No, Belle, I speak the truth. Upon my arrival of that God-forsaken house, Pork greeted me at the door with an adamant refusal to meet me in the eye and Dilcey kept herself relegated to confines of the kitchen. Henry barely mustered even a semblance of civility when I embarked upon his office. And Wade. Wade..." a flicker of hurt crossed over his features, "he is becoming a man. Ah, well."

Rhett squeezed his eyes shut and dragged his hand across the lids, striving to shed the persistent look of fatigue. He opened his eyes, and within their bleakness was revealed his inner struggle to voice his tortured thoughts. Uncharacteristically, Rhett snaked his arm around Belle's skirt and brought her against his chest. He pressed his nose against the shell of her ear and pled, "Is there nothing of import regarding my former life... of... of Scarlett ere this that you can relay?"

"I can't rightly say," she dismissed, her gaze hovered no higher than his collar. "Exceptin' for the time she keeps at Kennedy's, she ain't been seen 'bout town much." Belle paused and then grasped Rhett's wrist, encouraging him to tighten the hold he had upon her waist and abandon any further thoughts of his erstwhile wife.

After a lifetime of discerning the indiscernible, Rhett quelled a pained expression. Decisions were made, old habits die hard, and once again, they proceeded to dance that familiar dance. Her breath caressed the base of his throat and her bosom pressed up against him, imparting Rhett with a bountiful view. Belle lifted her lashes and peered up at him.

And then she lied.

And he knew she lied.

Her every touch, her every movement was a lie. Her eyes asked him for only a quiet conversation, a moment of his time, yet her body begged him for more—so much more. From torso to chest, her practiced hand scaled, tallying the row of buttons which began with his vest, continuing on with his shirt. Adroitly winding her wrist behind his cravat, her actions discovered the fastening on his collar. Fingers, livid with yearning, unfastened the top button and descended until they sensed bare skin. His lover shuddered, overwhelmed by the luxuriant feel of the coarse hair splayed across his warm, hard chest. She flitted a cursory gaze over his shoulder. "Will you be staying out the week? Your room is waitin' for you." She breathed, "I'll be waitin' for you."

Like a father scolding a naughty child, Rhett patted the her hand and gently extricated her fingers from underneath his shirt while unburdening her from their embrace.

"Unfortunately, no. I anticipate in taking my leave immediately following the conclusion of my business with Henry." Rhett leaned away from Belle and corrected his disheveled attire. A sudden, unexplained smile broke through his solemnity and broadened as he quipped, "I suppose I should visit the haberdashery, extenuating circumstances have rendered myself in want of a new hat."

No sooner had a laugh escaped his lips, all lingering humor from his private joke had dissipated from his affectation. Enveloped in melancholy once again, Rhett's words softened. "I must also find a way to speak privately with Dilcey about the menu before I make my way." He rested his chin on his chest and whispered, "she has grown thin."

He slung an offhanded glance at Belle and grimaced. Holding her locked arms across her chest, her décolletage swelled to the heights of an obscenity, puffed up with unholy indignation. She took in clipped breaths through distended nostrils and grappled to stiffen a quivering lower lip.

"Ah, Belle."

"Suit yourself," was all that she managed to utter with a steady voice as she gathered her skirts and pivoted on the one heel that she had dug into the wooden floor. Neither sought a second glance as Belle lifted two shaking fingers to her face. She discreetly swiped her cheek and lead her steps away from the only man that would forever hold her heart.

Rhett's knuckles rapped out an arrhythmic cadence on the counter. His vision scanned the expanse of the barroom. Rising from his seat, his intention for an immediate departure was thwarted when a pair of hands curled around his head and covered his eyes. A soft female form wriggled against his back.

"Guess who?"

Nothing could disguise the infectious voice tittering in his ear nor the incessant body determined to wrinkle his woolen suit coat. Rhett reached around his neck and grabbed the girl's wrist. With a swish and a flourish, he swung her about. Never would she be considered a reputed beauty, yet a more pleasant girl could not be found. Her brown hair may have been a might too plain for feathers, her figure a might too plump for ruffles, and her features a might too common for distinction, but her contagious effervescence made her a favorite among Belle's regulars.

"Well, mine own cuppeth runneth ov'r." For the first time since crossing the threshold of Belle's establishment, Rhett smiled without restraint, his eyes alit with genuine delight. "Violetta. You are a sight to behold."

"'Tis good to see you, Rhett."

"Why, I can hardly bear the brightness of your smile. You are nigh on beaming. Oh, but the secrets you must hold—and that you wish to tell ol' Rhett."

"I hope you don't mind my comin' to see you." Her bouncing basque stuttered, a brief hesitation in her excitable state. She blended into the crook of Rhett's arm. "When I saw you here, I just had to come and say hello. We sure missed you somethin' powerful, Rhett."

"And I, you." In a lightning quick minute, all eyes 'round the saloon were drawn to the squeal that rang throughout the rafters. Rhett lifted Violetta up off of the ground in a playful squeeze. Plopping her back down next to him, he buried his nose into her hair and whispered in a melodramatic voice. "Oh, Violetta, I beg of you to shine your kindness down upon a dear friend and relieve me of this all-consuming confusion. Spare my poor heart the agony and be forthright in divulging what has become of Avery Johnson, for I am most curious as to the great calamity that has befallen the poor fellow—hence rendering him witless."

"Lord only knows what has got a hold of that man's senses." Violetta took a step backwards, giggling and bobbing, and replied in the selfsame fashion. "He's been wearin' that silly doodad for near a month and done nothin' but give Reenie the fits."

"Indeed." Rhett slowly angled his chin downward, sidewinding a glance at the gentleman in question reposing at one of the card tables in the back corner.

"I swear, Rhett, in all my days, I ain't never seen such a sight. The first night he came in wearin' that—that—that thing, he was struttin' around the barroom like an old cock with a new crow. He said he ordered it from France and set to callin' it some fancy name that for the life of me I can't recollect."

"Is that fancy name perchance..." with all of the dignity of which the situation warranted, Rhett slowly stretched his neck and stroked the underside of jaw. Hazarding another glance at said gentleman, he muttered out the side of his mouth, "... toupée?"

"That's it!" Violetta hooted. "Oh, Rhett! He was so awfully twittered to try that thing out on Reenie. Why, the moment he spotted her on the stairs, he tossed his cards in the air and took after her like a bull chargin' a gate.

"And you should've seen Reenie! Lord! She took one gander at that sorry thing slapped atop his head and I swear her eyes 'bout popped out and rolled onto the floor. Course'n after they left, all creation couldn't help but wonder 'bout the goings on upstairs. Sure 'nough, a short spell later, Reenie comes back down with her fur just aflyin'.

"She told Belle that she'd done talked and talked and talked—'til she was blue in the face—but Avery refused to take that thing off. And to make matters worse, she afeared that with that thing on his head, he twern't ever goin' to finish his business, cause'n every time they'd start to congress, he'd have to stop and set that thing to rights to keep it from fallin' in his eyes."

"The hell you say." Rhett's mustache puckered prodigiously.

"Now, 'bout this time, Reenie knocked back a couple whiskeys and declared that she ain't 'bout to go back upstairs with Avery lookin' like he's wearin' his dead dog—'til one of us gals had an idea. As it came to pass, a few weeks ago, some cattle rustlers had come to town and one of them there cowboys left behind his hat. It had a fancy name, too—now, what was it called?"

"Would that name possibly be..." Rhett clamped his hand over his lips. Following a most vigorous rubbing, he spread his fingers wide and offered, "...Stetson?"

" _Stetson!_ Why, sure 'nough, it was Stetson! Thank you kindly, Rhett. So, we gals figured that if Reenie could get Avery to wear the hat, then it would keep his toupée from slippin' down that there bald head of his.

"So Reenie grabbed that there Stetson and went back upstairs. Course'n we all 'spected it done did the trick, cause'n it was a coon's age since we heard 'bout Reenie and Avery, until—" Violetta's eyes burst open and her bobbins of lace and ruffles began to ebb and flow as though a bubble of mirth was trapped within her corset and cutting off her air supply.

"Un—" Rhett held his head between his forefinger and thumb. He rubbed his temples, sneaking another peek at Avery Johnson slyly scratching his scalp. Unaware of the effect that his attentions had on his coiffure, Avery's fancy French accoutrement suddenly favored the left side of his head by well-nigh a good two inches. "Aw, Sweet Christ!" Rhett choked. "...until?"

"Like I said, nobody thought more on it 'til one night 'bout a week or so ago when the new gal, not here but a fortnight, was fussin' at Belle. She went on and on, squawkin' 'bout how she ain't makin' no money hostessin'. She said that it was Reenie's turn to take a shift on the floor so that she could entertain a client upstairs.

"Sure 'nough, Reenie heard the whole thing—and Lord! but she was cussed! She ran up on that new gal just ahollerin'—' _Hell's Bells! That's a right fine idea! I'll set to fetchin' drinks and lightin' cigars down here and you can go git your ass chapped playin' Cowboys and Indians!'_ "

Across the room and amid the cloud of smoke surrounding a cluster of gents partaking in an early round of High-Low poker, a melange of mustaches twitched, gazes averted, and bellies blustered at the sight of Captain Butler bending over the bar with his head buried in his hands coughing and wheezing to the point of apoplexy.

"What in tarnation is Butler all about? I do declare! Never have I seen him in such a state of tumult."

"Can't rightly say, Avery, " glancing up from his cards, a red-faced, portly gentleman sporting a handlebar mustache tickling the top side of his lip reasoned, "but I reckon he's admiring your new...vest."

After the initial onslaught, Rhett scraped his fingers across his skull, a gesture meant to right his hair and tamp down the unforeseen bout of frivolity. Alongside Rhett, Violetta's laughs evaporated precipitously and her mood gradually became unsettled. The twinkle in her eye was replaced with an indeterminate subtlety. She placed a gentle hand on his forearm, her manner soothing. Concern worried her brow.

"Please don't be angry with me, Rhett, but I just had to speak with you."

"Your mind seems troubled and I am sorry for that. It would indeed be an honor if you would allow me to offer my assistance."

"No, Rhett. You misunderstand." Violetta shook her head. "It's only right that you should know some things—things that some folks want to put to the grave."

Instinctively, a blaze ignited within the black depths of Rhett's eyes. Alert and intense, he immediately sought out his deceiver among the din of bodies and smoke.

"I heard you talkin' with Belle. What she said 'bout your wife 'tis true. Folks ain't seen much of her these past months, but ev'ry now and then, I do spot her outside Kennedy's with her boy—"

"Wade." Rhett interrupted, snapping his attention back to Violetta. "My stepson, Wade. Please, go on."

"Well, I just thought I should mention that I have seen her is all."

Rhett shifted on his stool. He rested his forearms on the bar and pushed his hands into the wood, splaying his fingers open until his knuckles whitened. He desolate stare eyed his palms as they dragged back and forth across the smooth varnish.

"How have folks been treating her, Violetta?" His tone grew hoarse and low.

"Some have been... unkind."

"Have they cut her outright?"

"Some."

"In–in front of Wade?"

Violetta nodded.

"Son of a bitch!" His sharp breath pierced the air. "In what manner do we repay our children for bequeathing onto us their unconditional love? We, in turn, burden them with our misdeeds."

"It's not so bad, Rhett." She shrugged one freckled shoulder. "Mrs. Butler does what a any woman would do, she carries on—but she's lucky, cause'n she has her boy.

"I remember the one time when I'd passed Kennedy's and seen the pair of them outside the store. Mrs. Butler was shooin' at her boy, wantin' him to go on without her, but he just stood there like a tin soldier. He straightened himself right up and held out his arm for her—just as proud as you please." Violetta's voice softened with emotion and she smiled through eyes that had misted over. "That boy loves his momma somethin' fierce!"

Rhett bowed his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. Violetta wrung her hands in wait. After the third clearing of his throat, Rhett lifted his head and replied with a watery smile of his own, "Thank you for that."

His spine stretched to an upright position and he braced both hands on the gleaming brass rail. "Well, I suppose I'd best be—" Rhett pushed himself backwards, but Violetta placed a firm hand on his forearm, staying his retreat.

"Rhett, did Belle speak to you 'bout other matters—'bout a gentleman?"

"Is this gentleman an acquaintance of mine?"

"No."

Rhett placed a wary eye upon her. "I don't believe Belle has relayed to me any information pertaining to this man."

"I understand Belle's heart—I do—but it ain't right. You see, some time ago, a gentleman had come in here askin' 'bout you."

"Does this gentleman have a name?"

"Curious 'nough, when Belle done asked him to properly introduce himself, he said, ' _Mr. Smith will suffice.'_ "

"Ah, so the man believed the situation warranted the employment of un nom d'emprunt. I am intrigued."

Rhett answered the look of confusion exhibited by Violetta's angled head and knitted brow. "Nom d'emprunt is a French term for an assumed name, honey. So tell me, Violetta, is this good sir a friend or foe?"

"I s'pose not one nor t'other. The man said that he only knew about you through a mutual acquaintance is all."

"Surely, Violetta, throughout your years in this establishment, you have encountered many a man, heralding dubious reputations and nefarious interests, all hellbent in taking a piece out of this old blackguard's hide. What is it about Mr. Smith that concerns you so? Did he say something untoward to Belle or one of the girls?"

"No. He was a gentleman. In truth, Rhett, the one time that he had come here, he spoke with Belle for just a short spell and then was gone. Folks have seen him 'bout town but he just ain't terribly social. Anyway, when Mr. Smith went to take his leave, he done caught Hugh Elsing's eye and nodded at him—like they'd know'd each other.

"So after he'd gone, Belle went to askin' Hugh 'bout him and Hugh said that he'd seen Mr. Smith down at Kennedy's. He said that he 'spected the man was sellin' his wares but he couldn't say for sure, 'cause'n whenever he saw Mr. Smith, the man always had one foot out the door."

Violetta bit her lip knowing the profundity of the knowledge in which she was about to convey. Since the first inference of Mrs. Butler, with each passing second, the ease of Rhett's attitude was gradually overtaken by a restlessness, hardening his features and coiling his body. Rhett's eyes smoldered, awakening a dormant madness that lurked beneath a surface polished with finery and gentility.

"Go on." He hovered over her, so close that she inhaled the smell of tobacco and whiskey clinging to his breath.

"W-well..." She lowered her chin and swallowed the visible lump in her throat. Clutching her shaky fingers together, Violetta hid them in the folds of her tulled skirt. Lord, but he was a powerful big man! "Well, you know how Belle is when it comes to you, Rhett. When she'd done heard that Mr. Smith was seen at Kennedy's, she got all 'dignant, sayin' that Mr. Smith's comin' here was by design—that Mrs. Butler's plottin' somethin'.

"And Hugh just sat there, starin' at Belle like she was right addled, and then asked her what business Mr. Smith had with you. Belle said that Mr. Smith was wantin' to know 'bout when you were 'spected back in 'Lanta, and then she done told all of us, ' _I said I had no notion of when Cap'n Butler's comin' back to town, and that's all I'm fixin' to say. And if that man comes back here 'gain, I don' want nobody sayin' nothin', neither!'_

"Anyway, Hugh looked at Belle all funny-like again and then said, ' _No need to fret, Belle. I guarantee that Mr. Smith won't be askin' no more 'bout Cap'n Butler, 'cause'n if you had seen the way he looks at Miss Scarlett, you done just told him all he wanted to hear.'"_

Rhett tore his stare away from the saloon girl quaking in her button-up boots. His eyes circuited incautiously around the barroom while he urged, "when did this conversation take place?"

"Well-nigh back in May."

"Has Mr. Smith occasioned Atlanta since that time?"

Violetta nodded.

"Have they—this Mr. Smith and my wife—" Rhett's chest heaved, "have they been seen together?"

"Like I said, it's been a scarce thing for folks in this here town to set their sights on Mrs. Butler. The only livin' soul that's seen a thing is Hugh."

"What else did Hugh have to say?"

"'Tis 'bout all."

"Can you describe the man's appearance?"

"He's a gentleman—and a mighty fine lookin' gentleman at that. He's all but as tall as you, but not quite, and his eyes and hair near as dark, too—and he dresses right fine, too."

Rhett ceased surveying his environs the moment he unearthed his quarry looming near the back door leading to the cellar. Anger rolled off of him with every breath he drew in through protracted nostrils as his eyes locked in on Belle, pinning her to the very spot of which she stood. Their entwined stare held the other in place, paired, and seething with conflict. Underneath a snarled brow, Rhett wordlessly cautioned Belle that the injustice of her actions would not be forgotten nor would it go unrewarded.

Belle retorted in kind. There was a pronounced defiance in her gait as she sashayed up to the bar where Clarence was stationed in front the liquor. She held up a shot of whiskey and in a mock salute, downed the bourbon with one quick flick of the wrist. Belle ran her tongue over her bottom lip and lifted her chin, silently swearing that after years of sweeping up the leftover crumbs of unrequited love for his wife, she no longer gave a Good God Damn!

"I'm sorry, Rhett. It was only right that you should know." Intent on giving Rhett a parting kiss on his cheek, Violetta stood on the tips of her toes and then started, jerking her head back at the sight of the reflection in the mirror moving decidedly towards them. After a hastily delivered peck, she whispered, "I pray that you find happiness someday," and scurried away.

"To hell with my miserable luck!" Rhett rolled his eyes heavenwards and pitched his cigar case into the air, disregarding it presence before it had even landed and skipped across the counter.

"Captain Butler." Ashley Wilkes gave a curt nod, lowering his stooping frame onto the seat most recently occupied by Belle.

Rhett ran his tongue underneath his top lip and across his teeth, making a sucking sound. He laced his fingers together and rested them on the bar, preferring to search for his recently extracted cigar case.

"Mr. Wilkes, this is an honor. Indeed, mine own cuppeth doth runneth ov'r—in spades it would seem."

"Captain Butler, forgive the interruption, but it would be unforgivable on my part in neglecting to extend my gratitude for your thoughtfulness."

"I beg your pardon?"

"F-for the flowers—for Melanie. I had visited her grave this past Sunday. The new headstone had been placed. The lilies were quite lovely." Rhett kept his line of sight averted. "Scarlett mentioned that you were in town and she was certain that they were your doing. I-I wish to thank you."

"There is no need to thank me, Mr. Wilkes. It was the least I could do in paying my respects to a great lady—and Mrs. Wilkes was a very great lady."

Studying Ashley from the side, Rhett curled up the side of his mouth and snickered. Ashley's covert actions proved inadequate in concealing his anxiety. He wiped his hands down the front of his trousers and inhaled a copious amount of air through flared nostrils, leaving but a piddling doubt that the man was girding up for a major offensive.

Rhett shifted his entire body on the stool and faced the gentleman full-on. "Carpe diem, sir."

"Now, I must beg your pardon."

"Mr. Wilkes, my departure from Atlanta is imminent. Speak your peace."

One by one, Ashley straightened each vertebra along his spinal column. He gulped down another swallow of air and parried, "My innermost desire is for Scarlett to find true happiness in life. I don't believe that there is anyone else more deserving than she."

"And the point of your espousal?"

"I- I beg of you, Captain Butler—leave her be."

"I thank you for your kindness and your concern. I bid you a good day, Mr. Wilkes."

"Please, Captain Butler—a mere moment. I have known Scarlett all of her life. She is a dear friend, and my only reason in speaking with you is out of worry for her."

Rhett crossed his arms over his chest, threw his head back and laughed. And within the throes of his laughter there held no humor. In that moment he was everything grim, sinister, and dangerous.

"Sir?"

"Please excuse my indelicate outburst, Mr. Wilkes." Rhett brought his head back up and addressed Ashley with a blinding smile. Ashley caught his gasp at the sudden turn of Rhett's demeanor. Within a breath, the sullen and unpredictable man had become insouciant and unperturbed. "I sit before you flabbergasted, for never would I have presupposed that my lot would find me wading through the murky waters of discussing the intimacies of my marriage with the serpentine that has precipitated its demise."

"Here me out, Captain Butler!" Ashley winced. He crouched down and swung his eyes around the saloon, gauging the upheaval brought about by his rise in temper. "Nothing untoward has ever occurred between Scarlett and myself!" He hissed with as much conviction as his lowered voice could project. "I have never encouraged Scarlett to entertain any romantic notions between us."

"Nor have you ever discouraged her!" Rhett spat through gritted teeth. He put his hand across his mouth and wiped away his own regrettable flare-up. A talented actor in his own right, Rhett tugged on his lapels and shrugged his shoulders, requiring nothing more to re-affix his mask of placidity. "Being of an astute mind, you will, of course, understand that I deem it impossible to be charitable towards the ' _gentleman'_ who could not reflect upon nor correct his own failings as a man—a man that defiled a young girl's heart, seeking only to validate his misguided sense of honor and pacify his battered ego."

"I have never dishonored Scarlett. As for myself, I have spent ample moments contemplating the defects of my character, defects that have lent to my inward struggle to embrace this new world—this new life—that has been thrust upon me. Can you speak of the same, Captain Butler? Have you ever concerned yourself with improving both your character and your conduct for the mere benefit of those that are endeared to you?!"

"Take care, Mr. Wilkes. In your bid to rescue Mrs. Butler from this bastard whose name she still bears, discretion would be the wise choice." Rhett exaggerated the wag of his finger. "We wouldn't want you to bite off more than you could chew, now would we?"

"In truth, I was never aware of the extent of my contribution towards the disintegration of your marriage. I will allow that I own a small measure of culpability in not being forthright with Scarlett regarding my own sentiments. However, regardless of my missteps, I will always be indebted to Scarlett for her unfailing kindness and generosity to both myself and my family, and my honor demands that I remunerate her by ensuring her happiness."

"Oh, to endure such tribulations—for you to be swaddled in a code of honor rife with fraudulence must be no small inconvenience."

Ashley shot up on his stool with all the alacrity of a man fifteen years his junior. After a decade of witnessing Rhett's idiosyncrasies, Ashley's stiffened spine announced his refusal to further accept Rhett's mocking diffidence as aged grievances were brought to the fore. His stormy eyes steeled and his chin jutted with determination.

"My role is but a small part played in this tragic comedy. As to your own unjust treatment of Scarlett throughout the years, how do you defend yourself, Captain Butler?" He demanded.

Rhett shrugged the corner of his mouth and held his hand up in the air towards Clarence, who proceeded to toss Rhett his cigar case from across the bar. Deftly catching the case with one hand, Rhett pivoted his attention upon the mien of a brightly-lit Ashley Wilkes, flushed with fury. By all accounts, all that was necessary to fuel the ire of the wooden-headed, little gentleman was a cock of the brow and a lazy smile across the lips—Rhett obliged.

"' _Contritionem præcedit superbia, et ante ruinam magno animo ante lapsum.*'_ " Ashley thrust his finger at Rhett's chest.

"Ah, Proverb 16:18. I commend your selection, Mr. Wilkes. Unfortunately, I can not unsheathe my weapon and counter your attack. In all fairness, I am compelled to point out that when it comes to affairs of the heart, I believe that we are of one mind." Rhett edged in, swallowing the distance between the two men until the uncomfortable closeness forced Ashley backwards, and rasped, "Pride is a most vindictive _bitch_ , is she not?"

Ashley faltered, momentarily spluttering out an incoherent string of sounds before Rhett raised his palm outward, the gesture ceasing Ashley's futile attempt at articulating a response.

"If you will allow me, sir, a reading from the Book of Exodus," Rhett continued quietly, ' _Non concupisces uxorem proximi tui'._ "

A slight shiver captured his spine and the gallant cloak of honor and decency that Ashley had worn with pride was ripped from his shoulders. Rhett's silken whisper taunted, "to be more precise, Exodus 20:17—' _Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's wife.'_ "

"Y-you misunderstand, sir."

"Is that not the cuckold's prerogative?"

Covert no more, Ashley slapped the top, the inside, and underneath his coat, fumbling through his breast pockets until he produced a kerchief, a necessity for wiping away the droplets of sweat-soaked apprehension sprinkling his forehead.

"What is in the past is passed, Captain Butler. We can not alter the time nor circumstances of which have irreparably altered our souls. Scarlett deserves a life filled with riches engendered from happiness and love. A life that I am ill-equipped to provide her—as are you.

"As for being charitable, not unlike yourself, I, too, cannot offer charity to the man that did nothing to provide her guidance and support, yet did everything in his power to destroy the very thing that made Scarlett a special creature—her spirit."

"Thank you for your candor in my comeuppance, Mr. Wilkes. It has been enlightening, and I have no doubt that among my extensive list of evils, pride would hold a place of honor in the confessional as I plea for dispensation." Rhett flipped open his cigar case, inadvertently running his finger across the worn engraving. "If you would in turn oblige me, sir, be so kind as to offer your musings on what you believe your vaunted pride has cost _you._

"As such, when it came to my wife, was pride your master that commanded you to entice Scarlett with all of those pretty little notions, dangling them just beyond her reach? Was it the master's will that guided your lust for Scarlett all these many years?"

"Deeds and words were misconstrued, and I am sorry for that. Again, I cannot alter the past."

"As you have opined. The term that you applied was 'irreparable'—how apropos."

Rhett relaxed his back and shoulders, pulling a cigar out from within it encasement. He alternated between rolling it between his finger and thumb and patting the end on the bar counter.

"How ironic life is, is it not, Mr. Wilkes?" The sound of a struck match and the smell of sulfur broke the air. Rhett continued on allowing the flaming match to burn the tip while his devilishly white teeth chewed on the cigar. "Here sit we two devils, discussing pride as though the emotion itself is but a whimsy of youth. I suppose that in some ways that is true. As a man who has seen many more days behind him than what is before him, I can attest that the indomitable sense of pride which once ravaged my breast has waned and now replaced by a deep-seated sense of regret."

"I suppose with age comes wisdom and as age and wisdom ascend, regret can't help but follow."

"Funnily enough, I had always taken great pains to avoid that emotion."

"I don't believe any living soul can live a lifetime without experiencing regret. Most certainly, we could while away the evening regaling one another with a litany of the 'what-ifs' plaguing our existence."

"Ah, yes. The cursed mantra of 'what if', but let us not forget its twin, 'if only'. With a great degree of certainty, I believe that when the hour is near and my time has come, I will be reliving the night of the Shantytown raid and wondering how different my life would have been if only... if only..." Rhett clasped his hands together and rested his elbows on his knees. He glanced up at Ashley and then studied his hands, a smile—part wistful, part venom—played upon his lips, "I had a clean shot."

Rhett sighed, hefting his tired body up, punctuating his actions with a shrug, seemingly shaking those dirty little secrets from his shoulders.

"Ah, well. ' _What is in the past is passed'._ Bravo, Mr. Wilkes—bravo. As for Scarlett's care, be assured, I will always do her bidding." Rhett brought his large hand down on Ashley's shoulder, compressing the right side of his body with a sound clap. "Well, I believe we have come to a most satisfactory understanding. Shall we have a drink on it?"

Ashley shook his head, holding a slight look of befuddlement. "Th-that would be acceptable."

"I am indeed honored, sir." Rhett stepped away from his stool and stood. "Please excuse me. I'll be but a moment. Belle is still in possession of some exquisite liquor from my private reserve. I believe a propitious moment such as the one before us would warrant the breaking of a seal or two."

Rhett waved Clarence away, disappearing around the corner of the bar and into the back storage room. Ashley made another pass of the handkerchief across his forehead and suddenly sensed the tempered atmosphere swirling about the smoky saloon. Realizing that, albeit discreet, his conversation with Rhett was an extravaganza of considerable magnitude and not to be overlooked. He braced his hands on his knees and sighed, relieved that Rhett had returned holding two tumblers, each spilling over with distilled spirits. Rhett carefully placed both glasses on the bar, directly in front of Ashley. Ashley lifted a brow and reached in, his action meant to scoot a glass in front of Rhett.

"Oh no," Rhett retook his stool, holding up his hand. "They are both for you. I am anxious for you to savor a bit from each tumbler and offer your opinion, for the blends are inferior to none."

"Would you be agreeable in educating me on the specifics that distinguish one spirit from the other?"

"Indeed, it gratifies me to offer elucidation of the unique qualities that make up each blend, but I wish for the name of each brand to remain a mystery. I would not dare to predispose your palate prior to you discerning your true predilection based upon taste alone."

"A blind test—interesting."

"Shall we begin, Mr. Wilkes?" Using both hands Rhett cupped the bottom of the tumblers and pushed the glasses to within an inch of Ashley's elbows resting on the counter. "In one of the glasses is a generous pour of a matured, single malt whiskey from a distillery located in the lush Highlands of Scotland. Although, I have recently developed a preference for bourbon, I find the smoothness of this single malt is extraordinary."

Ashley's eyes skirted across the top of the glasses and over to Captain Butler—controlled and cryptic as ever. What in blue blazes? He rubbed his forefinger and thumb together, his wrist lingering over the glass nearest to Rhett and then switched his focus back to the other tumbler. He shot another sideways glance at Rhett and caught his eye. Did he catch him in an unguarded moment? Ashley quickly directed his sight back to the liquor stationed in front of him.

Swallowing hard and sweeping his hand over his mouth, Ashley wiped off the excess moisture accumulating on his top lip. "As for the other?"

Still clenching a cigar between his teeth, Rhett grinned, dragging a long hit from his cheroot. He released his inhalation and locked the blackest of eyes upon the little gentleman.

"Forgive me, Mr. Wilkes, for not properly attending to our conversation." Using his teeth and tongue, Rhett expertly maneuvered the rolled tobacco leaf from one side of his mouth to the other. "As for the second Scotch, although not a single malt, it is also a premium blend consisting of malted barley, rye," encroaching and snarling, Rhett breathed, "and _my piss._ "

Shoulders squared and backs stiffened. Ashley answered Rhett's challenge with a look of unadulterated contempt. A victor would not be inducted on that day. Rhett removed the cigar from his lips. He drug his tongue along his top row of teeth and held on to an insidious half-smirk. Ashley visibly swallowed the conspicuous lump that had formed in his throat. He picked up his selected glass of Scotch with trembling fingers. Reckless and emboldened, Ashley raised his arm above his head. He hoisted the tumbler into the air and extended a hearty hail to the filthy bastard. "I salute you, Captain Butler."

However great was his bravado, it was all for naught. Ashley faltered in his movement as he brought the glass up to his lips, and in that moment of hesitation, Rhett poised his corona over the rim of the crystal and flicked his thumb.

The room froze and all creation stilled, waiting upon the wooden-headed Mr. Wilkes, and wondering if he was to make good on his side of the bargain by taking a sip. Lowering his arm to half-mast, Ashley breathed in a second helping of air and clenched his eyes shut. He cleared his throat and choked down his disgust. His gaze remained affixed to the tumbler in his hand. The expensive liquor was held stagnant underneath a newly-formed layer of blackened ash that occasionally released a cinder. His eyes followed the paths of the errant tendrils of soot, twitching and swirling, as they raced their way towards the bottom of the glass.

"Drink up, old friend."

* * *

A moment interminable hung in the air.

The gentleman requested a private audience with the lady. His bearing exuded refinement yet he wore his wealth with abandon. One in the same, he was powerful yet graceful, classic yet exotic. His movements spoke of his will. He could command anything from anyone, for clearly, he was never denied his want.

In haste to assist the stranger of consequence, Edward, the young apprentice, reached above his head to silence the bells on the top of the door while he turned the key in the lock. He glanced over his shoulder at the patrons before slipping into the back room of the exchange.

Not one full year removed from his home in St. Louis, Edward was quite abashedly ignorant of the influential, societal figures about town that patronized the store. The proprietor, Mr. Stinson, was clear in his expectations. Edward's job was to learn his craft, to keep both his eyes and head down and leave the servicing of customers to Mr. Stinson—but Mr. Stinson had to run an errand on that particular morn. Edward had taken note of the lady, she had frequented the store on prior occasions. To remember her was no great feat, it was not possible that the lady would escape any man's attention. She was a most lovely creature. He did not recognize the tall, dark man.

The gentleman separated the woman from her purchase, still tarrying on the glass counter. He took the beauty by the hand and wrapped her fingers around his arm, leading her over to a secluded corner of the store. A spray of early morning sun cast a brilliant shard of light across the floor of the storefront, however, it knowingly left the elegant pair to the shadows. A thousand shimmers sparkled among the rows of gleaming gold and shining silver. Rainbows refracted up from the assortment of precious and semi-precious stones, spread out on the velvet cloth draping the glass counters. The stones lie in stunning exhibition, all eager to be touched, to be lovingly admired, and above all, to be touted.

Edward's judgment momentarily slipped. He peered through a seam of the deep olive-green curtain hanging listlessly in the doorway, physically separating his curiosity from the couple. He imagined their predicament to be a foregone conclusion. Seemingly, the relationship was in a state of great disharmony. The lady entered the store first, crossing the threshold mere minutes before three small chimes hanging atop of the door announced his entrance. There was a purpose to his long strides as he made his way up to the counter where she stood. Her eyes, so utterly enchanting, began to glisten, illuminating the depth of her sadness as she beheld him. She lowered her chin and pirouetted away, placing her back to him.

The young clerk's stare flitted between the lady and the gentleman—between inquisitiveness and interest. She had removed her light grasp from his forearm and entwined her fingers together, burying them within the flowing material of her silk dress. There was a familiarity about them suggesting theirs was an intimate relationship—however, she did not remove her kidskin gloves and he wore only a signet ring. Who were they? What did they mean to each other?

The gentleman lobbed a perfunctory glance across the counter before gesturing towards the curtain, beckoning Edward out from behind. Was the great man aware of his impudence?

"Y-yes, sir." Edward croaked, winded from the short hustle up to the counter.

"Would you be so kind and allow the lady a closer inspection of the choker on display in the encasement behind you?"

The man merely nodded in the direction of the glass cabinet housing jewels, equally rare and expensive, from around the world. The riches sealed behind the protective glass façade was worth more than the gross domestic product of the lower half of the United States. The young man ducked into the back, and after a brief intermission of rustling and clanging, resurfaced with a set of keys. Upon his return, Edward gave in to his better sense, capturing a second glance at the lady as he spread out another velvet cloth on top of the counter and re-positioned the mirror. She was demure and dreadfully silent. Edward was doubtful that during his absence a single word had passed between the pair.

"The parure, sir?" The jangling keys, made all the louder by his unsteady hand, reverberated throughout the store. After two unsuccessful turns of the ring, the proper key was found and set firmly into the tumblers of the lock.

"The choker, alone, will be satisfactory." The man instructed, studying Edward as he turned the key and proceeded to open the glass panel.

Edward wipe down his palms on the front of his apron. Surely, Mr. Stinson would be back any moment. He must have been waylaid. Edward lifted the platinum choker, interwoven with over one-hundred and thirty carats, with all due reverence befitting the fortune that he held in his hands. The young man placed the necklace onto the black cloth, adjusting the jewels wherever the pattern had been disturbed.

He cleared his voice and raised his eyes towards the grave couple.

"Sir, Madame, the piece before you was designed with a subtle Baroque influence. There are over eight hundred diamonds, both square and round cut, which form the lacework that drapes around the neck. As you can see, beginning at the neckline, iterations of a delicate scroll pattern flow down the necklace, converging into a 'V' at its lowest point. Although the diamonds, alone, are worthy of the highest praise, what sets this exquisite piece apart is the thirteen pear-drop rubies accentuating each re-occurrence of the scrollwork pattern. Simplistic in its presentation, the artistry of this piece when paired with the right woman, masterfully enhances rather than diminishes her true beauty."

Edward cleared his throat and shifted his weight from boot heel to boot heel. The man twitched his fingers, swatting him away.

"If I can be of any further assistance, I will be in the back, sir."

Edward resumed his position—behind the curtain with one eye peeking through the seam. The man took one deliberate step towards the lady, so close that his lower body flattened her bustle. Twisting her neck, she fluttered her lashes as she raised her eyes to him, begging for an explanation. He wrapped his arm around her waist, so tiny and so delicate, silencing the rustle of silk with the pressure of his hand splayed across her torso and pressing against her stomach. Affected by his mere touch, her even breaths were reduced to shallow pants. One small jerk forward and her shocked features registered her failure in tearing her body away from his. His large hand first caressed and then tightened its grip around her torso. Leaning his body forward, his chest was flush against her back.

Her eyes riveted to the reflection before her, gauging his intentions from behind thick lashes. For her, to her, he would forever remain an enigma; she would never know him—but she knew enough. Every inch of his body insinuated itself against her, foretelling of its master's determination—the gentleman would not be deterred.

Two by two, the rubies fell from the plush fabric, dropping into place as he reached around her and lifted the necklace with both hands. A shudder rippled across her porcelain skin as the coolness of the bottom stone dipped down between the swell of her breasts. Gemstone by gemstone, the weight of the rubies and diamonds stilled her chest as he drew the necklace into position. She held her chin up, watching—and waiting. He paused the moment his fingers gathered the clasp together. Her lashes fluttered to a close when he brushed his lips against her temple, his warm breath washing over her skin. Her teeth bit down on her lip, feeling him nuzzle her ear and breathing in her scent. "No," she mouthed too late. The cool air collided with her skin, and left her shivering from the wet imprint of his hot mouth upon her neck. Raising his head, he clenched his eyes tight and pressed his forehead against her temple. So pained was his expression that they both shook from the violence.

He fastened the clasp and allowed his fingers to linger on her skin before sliding his hands down her basque, and ultimately, enveloping her in his arms. He bent forward, burying his face against her neck and disturbing the wisps of hair framing her delicate features. Her lashes stuttered open, absorbing their reflection in the mirror, of him and her—together. And together they were captured in a spell. Sunlight danced across the surface of the rubies, shaken by her measured and broken breaths. The man's fingers spread open against her bodice while his arms tightened, burrowing her further into his embrace. Turning up her chin, she broke her eyes from the mirror and stared directly into his. They were so dark, yet so alive. He kissed the tip of her nose. Reaching up, his hand snaked underneath the heavy stones and rested upon her chest. He splayed his fingers, the tips lightly caressed circles into her silken skin. The touch of his ascending fingertips brushed and stroked the column of her neck until rubies and diamonds oozed out between his fingers as he cupped the underside of her chin. He brought his lips to within a breath of hers, whispering into her mouth.

Of what specific kindness did they seek from the other? His lips grazed a trail along her cheek and then he closed his eyes, burying his nose into the shell of her ear. More private pleas were exchanged. In a grand but fleeting moment she smiled a small, fragile smile—and from her smile, his smile was born. Who sacrificed their heart? Who bore their soul? Who begged for forgiveness? Who received absolution?

His fingers slowly skimmed across her skin as his hand slid away. Collecting her purchase with haste, she made her way towards the front of the store, calling out to Edward for assistance. He scrambled to reach the door before her and released the lock. She took a single, tentative step across the threshold then halted, turning back to him. Tears gathered on the lashes of her beautiful eyes as the lady met the gentleman's piercing gaze. It was a look of unspoken hurt, of untouched feelings, of so much more than could ever be voiced, that it stole Edward's next breath.

And then she was gone.

Edward loped back to the man at the counter, a flush continued to blemish his features.

"C-can I be of any further assistance, sir?"

"Your undisguised admiration of the lady was apparent." The man's eyes lingered a brief heartbeat longer on the vacant doorway.

Edward shifted uncomfortably, lowering his eyes in submission. "Please accept my apologies—"

He discarded Edward's blunder with a crack of the wrist. "Do not concern yourself. She is a very lovely lady. A man can not help but appreciate her beauty."

"Indeed, sir. Will you be acquiring the parure for the lady?"

"Yes..." the man's lips formed a crooked smile, "and no. I wish to have its equal made with the exception of the gemstones."

"Sir?"

"The rubies shall be replaced with stones that are the exact color of her eyes."

"How? But, Mr. Stinson..." Edward shook his head. "It may take some time, sir."

"I can wait."

"A custom made piece will be priced substantially higher than the necklace before you, sir."

"I can pay."

"Maybe you should speak to Mr. Stinson? I am but an apprentice, sir."

"You did take particular notice of her, did you not?"

"Y-yes, sir."

"And you are learning to become a jeweler, are you not?"

"Yes sir."

"I would presume that you would consider yourself not a tradesman, but an artist. Is this assumption correct?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Now, I have no doubt that you will agree with my assertion that a gifted artist is a soul that possesses an acumen for attention to detail—and if you are a true artist, as you profess, I have every confidence that you will remember the exact hue and shade of her eyes."

"Yes, sir."

"Excellent. Then I will leave you with the address as to where to ship the set."

"Thank you, sir." Edward crouched behind the counter, garnering a sheet of paper and a pen. Placing the articles in front of the gentleman, he blurted, "I'm positive that your... w-wife... will favor this parure above all others in her private collection."

"Wife? Hmm." The gentleman emitted a small laugh without interrupting his task of writing down his personal information. He lifted his eyes from underneath his brow and grinned at Edward. "I believe I will cede the realities of my marital status to your fertile imagination. I'd wager that whatever your mind may conjure up will be vastly more tantalizing."

* * *

Proverb 16:18 - Pride goeth before destruction, and a high mind before the fall.

* * *

© 2017-18 Olivia E. Landry. All Rights Reserved.


	7. La Belle Époque

The sign on the door says ' **Warnings Apply** '. That is the umbrella warning. However, in this chapter, there are a couple of moments and a few terms that may curl some toes. *blush*

* * *

 ** _Disclaimers:_**

 _•I need to reiterate that my goal at the onset of YMCB was to not sanitize Rhett nor Scarlett which invariably means that YMCB will not be everyone's cup of tea. I appreciate readers that are still willing to give YMCB a try, but I understand if you do not continue on with the story. Cheers._

 _•Like all authors, I LOVE comments and feedback that are constructive and useful. If the intended comment is meant to inflame, then it will be deleted. Sorry guys, no trolls on the YMCB board._

 _•I do not own nor profit from Margaret Mitchell's beautiful characters. In accordance with producing a transformative work, the source copyrighted elements derived from Gone With The Wind have been removed and Your Mistress, Captain B- has been submitted to the US Copyright Office for copyright protection, thereby the author retains all rights to the original creative work of this story._

* * *

 _ **Chapter 6**_

 _ **Spring, 1875**_

 _ **Two Continents Opposite An Ocean**_

"Ah, Mademoiselle, a mere sip of la fée verte and your tongue thirsts for more, no?" The cloying scent of anise and fennel adhering to his clammy breath straightened the tiny hairs on the back of her neck. Astute in cultivating a demure and proper façade, Marguerite conquered the urge to pinch at her corset where the boning dug into the sides of her bosom. Pressed against the cool marble pillar, she arched her back and thrust her risqué bustline outward. Charitable in her pose, she granted her most recent admirer, a French aristocrat of economical charms and dubious rank, permission to flirt with the tiny birthmark peeping up at him from the inside of her left breast. "Hmm." He groaned as he breathed in her scent, a melding of orange blossoms, bergamot, and musk.

Decidedly bedeviled after a myriad of contretemps to extricate a glance from her estranged companion, Marguerite diverted her attention away from the prostituting throng in steadied convergence around Rhett and strove to discover the pleasures of the Parisian Beau Monde on her own accord. The dainty baron, of whom she had been teasing with the promise of carnal delights would suffice.

Marguerite tilted her head to one side and rested her finger on the first of the thirteen sumptuous gemstones framing her neckline. It was a familiar caress made to soothe her disquietude. Trickling down her skin, her touch tipped the initial jewel, then the second, the third, fourth, fifth, sixth—until it finally lingered upon the seventh teardrop adorning the necklace and cleaving the swell of her breasts. Draped in a regal Peau de Soie silk, her sapphire eyes sought out her likeness from the wall-length mirror opposite wherein she stood.

Would a capricious notion ever chance upon her and wrest away the blissful sensation of caressing each gem capping a torrent of diamonds pouring down her throat? When he came up from behind her and instructed her to close her eyes; when her skin rejoiced from the cold nip of the precious metal, the bulk of the stones, and the heat of his fingers as he wound the choker around her neck; she knew it would be an eternity before that moment would ever come to pass.

Her stare escaped the self-imposed boundaries existing between her reflection and the man's medallion-trimmed sash, panning the sea of Mephistophelian beauty. As her agitation crested Marguerite espied Rhett near the rear of the grand parlor. Nearly a head taller than any other man in the room, his ability to camouflage his whereabouts was as mystifying as his reception. Publicized as the striking gentleman from wilds of America with a biting glint, even among the established set of Parisian society, the agency of Rhett Butler was the provocateur of tongues.

"La Louche?" The insolence of the man's hand knew no bounds as it curled around her waist and buried itself behind her bustle, a successful tactic in distracting her never-ending quest for Rhett. Marguerite squinted at her little lord over the rim of the crystal stemware, all but drained of its milky-green liquid sin. The distinctive rows of the nobleman's slick, comb-backed hair began to suffer the loss of its liberally administered pomade's adhesive properties. Muddy strands of his coiffure drooped from his balding crown as he hovered over her, nodding at the drink clutched within her delicate fingers. "Shall we, ma beauté?"

Since their departing voyage from New York and before their arrival at the château of the infamous courtesan, Mdme. Gisèle Lausier, Rhett extolled upon the innocent guise that belied the seductive powers of la fée verte—'the green fairy'—absinthe. The instant her satin slippers introduced her person into the hall of the grand palais, situated on the banks of the Champs-Élysées, a greasy man trumpeting the foulest of breath and excessive girth claimed her from Rhett's solicitous embrace and guided her towards the refreshments. Her guide's unique stench of an unwashed body and stale sweat smote her nostrils as his fat hands introduced her to 'La Louche', a sacred ritual necessary in rousing _la fée verte_. A protracted time later and despite Rhett's repeated guidance, the steady trickle of the heady elixir thickened her tongue, arousing her senses.

"Oui... merci..." Marguerite hesitated, first glancing at the nobleman subsequently firing a peripheral glance in Rhett's direction once more. The rim of her glass shot to her lips, muffling the gasp that had burst from her mouth. Sidled up to Rhett and stroking the lapel of his dinner jacket in a most inviting manner was none other than the courtesan herself. Beautiful and exotic, provocative and dark, Mdme. Lausier beheld Rhett underneath dusky lashes carrying an expression meant to lull, luring him into her devouring lair.

Marguerite shifted away from the post, gaining little in removing herself from her own nascent tryst. Her duke of half-measure grasped her forearm and pulled her within a hair's breadth of his embrace. Climbing upwards towards the chandelier hanging from rafters, her vision noted the bevy of couples, eager in their unspent passion, wending their way in and out from behind the heavy oak doors situated along the mezzanine. Her attention slid back down the gleaming columns of splendor—

And Rhett was gone.

"Perhaps you would permit us a moment of privacy—a tête-à-tête, yes?" The nobleman's fevered entreaty whispered against her ear pimpled her flesh. Deprived of Rhett's attention and consequently denied of her own gratification, with practiced subtlety Marguerite accepted her interim lover's intimation by lowering her chin and lifting her lashes. The thick air grew salty and wet from the heat of their bodies clustered against the pole. The mélange of the sheen on her skin, a bead of perspiration dripping down his temple, and their combined breaths—a swirl of spice and lust—made for a reckless concoction.

"Hmm." She paused, snaking her tongue out to moisten her lips. He pressed nearer and Marguerite did not misidentify the feel of his leg insinuating itself between her thighs. His simpering look grew feral. The tip of his finger brushed over her elbow skipping a trail up her arm. Settling upon the hem at the top of her silk glove, his finger stroked tiny circles, branding the tender flesh on the underside of her arm. Marguerite caught her breath sensing his lips mouthing his entreaty upon her skin.

"Perhaps you wish to fuck?" He dragged his teeth down her neck.

"If you would be so kind, Mademoiselle." The nectar sloshed around Marguerite's glass in the wake of her jolt. She looked to her side, discovering the outstretched arm of a footman prepared to gently maneuver her away from the nebulous undertone forming between herself and a few minutes of tainted pleasure. Her upturned eyes studied the stony mien of the servant as he cleared his throat. Her sight flicked back to the corner of the parlor so recently abandoned by Rhett.

Madame Lausier was gone.

The sudden appearance of discarded drinks collecting on a proffered silver tray tinkled as she disposed of the trembling glass held in her hand. Marguerite's nostrils flared below inflamed eyes and above an indignant chin as the footman encouraged her to relieve herself of the blueblood's society. Before that first decisive step fell, Marguerite turned back over her shoulder. Her upper lip twitched as she met the gaze of the wee marquis and mouthed, "Perhaps."

One bifurcated staircase and three doors later, Marguerite held her composure and steadied her gaze as she descended upon the demimondaine's inner sanctum. The expanse of Madame Lausier's luxuriant private quarters served as both a boudoir and sitting room. Ivory cherubs perched atop the angles of the cornice held sentry over a bacchanalia of aurelian splendor. An oversized mirror graced the mantle of the marble fireplace refracting multiple points of light from the crystal chandelier. Paintings depicting romance and artistry lined the walls softened with mossy-hued velvet.

Marguerite's wandering gaze surrendered its perusal. However refined the articles of furnishings nestled within the sitting area, nothing could not compare to the obelisk that stood as a testament to what a beautiful face, a lush body, and a calculated mind could achieve—a bed of gold.

It would not do to gape.

Beholding the ornate four-poster bedstead adorned with tapestries of the richest fabrics and deepest colours, Marguerite was rendered awestruck. The luxuriant lifestyle that this paramour... this concubine... this whore had achieved was incomprehensible. Amid the resplendence Marguerite's musings turned inward. Her thoughts were seized by Rhett's earlier sardonic quip about touching idols and gilded fingers. In another turn of her thoughts as her stare lingered upon the bedstead, realization struck Marguerite—Rhett was not present.

Was her elongated breath fueled by relief or apprehension?

"I thank you for this honor, Madame Lausier."

"Please call me Gisèle, as do my dearest acquaintances. May I refer to you by your Christian name?"

"Marguerite."

Gisèle nodded her acknowledgment and glided her lithe figure over to an intricately carved dressing table, another gleaming testament to unparalleled vainglory. She pirouetted before Marguerite, situating herself by crossing one leg over the other on a bench—an orchid-colored, velvet affair with bounded strands of tinsel at the corners. Absent an invitation to be offered a seat on the matching settee, Marguerite remained standing and faced Gisèle. She was not unstudied of the gamesmanship in the overt display Gisèle used to exert her dominance.

"You are an actress, no?"

"Oui."

"Ah, vous parlez donc le français?" Gisèle peeled away her gloves and pushed them into the corner of the dresser top. "I had asked if you spoke French?"

"Un-un... " Marguerite knitted her brow, denoting her grappling. "...pur."

"Nothing gives greater offense to a countryman's ear than hearing his language spoken from an unlearned tongue. If you are not fluent in the language, conceal your ugliness. You were on the stage in America, no?"

"Yes."

"Of what are your circumstances?"

"Pardon?"

"Ah, you wish to be forever the ingénue, it is so? Of what hardships have you suffered?"

Gisèle folded one finely-boned hand atop the other, placing them upon her knee as she leaned back against the vanity top. She cocked her head to the side offering Marguerite a smile that marred her guileless mask. Marguerite inched her chin forward and mirrored the courtesan's cagey glint, uttering not a sound under Gisèle's withering scrutiny.

"We each have our own tale of sorrow to tell," Gisèle pressed. "What of you?"

"I left home when I was seventeen years old."

Gisèle measured her response by reducing her mouth into the breadth of a fiber. Her stare never wavered as she withdrew a filigree-etched gold case from the vanity behind her. In the ensuing quiet, success was soon hers in the execution of her gambit that forced Marguerite to step into the silence.

"I could not abide the life that was destined for me. My papa had passed on when I was thirteen years old, and after his parting, my mother felt it was necessary to secure my future." Gisèle lifted a cigarette from its case. One arm enfolded her torso while the other held the unlit smoke high in the air. The resounding void urged Marguerite to continue further. "I refused to marry my intended."

"The severity of your intended's faults must have been very great. These defects that you held in contempt, name them."

"He was a tenant farmer and a widower, much older than myself. He was grave, and disapproving, and..."

"And?"

Marguerite's schooled mien, meant to countermand Gisèle's imperious manner, heightened in color from a sudden rush of vehemence. "I may have been only seventeen, but I knew! I _always_ knew that there was more to life than being the wife of a farmer—that there was more for me than to endure a daily wearing down. What good ever came from being a brood mare, birthing a man's brat every year? What grace could God bestow onto me other than granting me an early grave?"

One side of Gisèle's lip curled upwards. Her hooded eyes and crooked smile displayed the latent ferocity of a ravenous alley cat unleashing its claws as it cornered its supper.

"And now here you are, in the city of Paris, gracing the arm of Captain Butler." Gisèle took a deep drag of her cigarette and upturned her chin releasing a plume of smoke. She rested her elbow on the dressing table with the cigarette pointed towards the ceiling tiles. Tapping the butt with her thumb, she tarried on the glowing embers as she studied the tip. "Captain Butler," she reflected aloud, "the scoundrel with eyes as soulless as the midnight sky."

A white knot of fingers buried themselves deeper into the silk. Marguerite stiffened her spine to check the rustle of her skirt while shifting her stance.

"You are his mistress, no?"—tap, tap—"For how long?"

"One year this past season."

"Have the particulars of your circumstance been cataloged?"

Marguerite faltered in swallowing down her next breath and unwittingly exposed her plight.

"Your allowance... the duration... his expectations, what has been agreed upon? Has your residence been gifted to you?"

"Our home? He has not... it is a—" she sputtered, "n-not as of yet."

Gisèle drew one last hit eyeing Marguerite from her periphery. She stubbed out the cigarette in a porcelain dish with violet pansies painted around the delicate rim. Marguerite ground her jaw, chewing on the disadvantage created by Gisèle's extended deliberations.

"What does Captain Butler wish to conceal?" Gisèle contemplated behind the dark shadows of a gaze directed beyond Marguerite and lost in thought. "What makes that man's eyes as black as coal?"

"It a mere affectation when he is socializing. To know him is to know a true gentleman. He is handsome, charming, brilliant, wealthy—"

"Bah! The man has breathed twenty years beyond what you have lived. Speak no more of what I can see with my own eyes. Speak of his hidden desires. Speak of the troubles that weigh upon his soul—that have broken his back."

"H-he had a young daughter that died."

"When?"

"This spring but two years past."

"He grieves for the child still, no?"

"That is mere conjecture."

"What has become of the child's mother?"

"It is unspoken—r-rather understood—that any discussion of the girl's mother is not to be broached."

"You mentioned that you are an actress. I take it Captain Butler harbors a fondness for the theatre."

"I believe so, yes."

"Will you be attending la Salle des Capucines when in residence? L'Opéra? Le Louvre?"

"We have no set schedule during our tour of Europe."

"Do you not partake of these delights in America?"

"His commitments never spare him adequate time for leisure."

Pulling out the shallow drawer resting below her, Gisèle retrieved her calling card and a piece of matching note paper, both adorned with ornate filigree flourishes stamped in gold foil, and placed them before her. She reached across the vanity for a fountain pen. Marguerite pursed her lips to tame a wayward smirk threatening to expose her ruminations. Perchance Madame Lausier were to retrieve a writing instrument made of paltry silver? Woe to the shocking incongruity!

"Where are your accommodations in the city?" Gisèle shifted away from Marguerite as she began penning her correspondence.

"Le Meurice."

"I wish to extend my regards to Captain Butler. Cognac or Armagnac? Enlighten me of his preference."

"Cognac." Marguerite blurted. The hurried response provoked Gisèle to lift her brows. With careful attention, she slowly placed the fountain pen on the linen parchment. She angled her head and studied Marguerite's fingers intertwining with the metallic spangles woven into the fabric of her basque.

"Captain Butler is a gentleman of appreciable distinction. What are you worth to the man?"

Marguerite's hand grappled at her throat until her finger found the first teardrop—two-three-four... "This parure was made especially to his specifications—for me."

"The necklace signifies only that Captain Butler's taste is everything that is exquisite." Gisèle elegant hands encircled her own slender neck to release the clasp of the substantive ruby choker. The palm of her hand caught the mass of gemstones as it slid down her throat. The blood-stained crystals landed in a heap on the dresser as she opened up both paneled doors of a tabletop armoire of a height dwarfing the mirror. She pinched off her grin in capturing Marguerite's slip in comportment at the sight of the velvet-lined innards engorged with a melange of dazzling, wondrous finery.

It would not do to gape.

"The jewels that you see before you are but a jot of the undying love professed to me by my many benefactors throughout the years." Gisèle hung the rubies on a small hook and shut the doors of the armoire, an act that served as both a literal and a figurative closure to the strain of their discourse.

Marguerite blinked and all at once the lassitude exhibited in Gisèle's demeanor vanished. In its stead a sense of urgency claimed the woman's movements. Gisèle's fingers plucked at her hair, pins of diamonds and onyx plunked into the dish, lustrous ebony tresses plunged down her back. She shook out her curls and arose from her bench traveling the length of the room towards the head of the golden bed. In one moment Gisèle tugged on the tassel of the silken rope dangling from the ceiling and in the next moment a petite abigail, no more than fourteen years of age, was at her side.

"I take it you please him then, no?"

"Yes." Marguerite persisted to fondle her necklace, spellbound by the rapidity in which the young maid had stripped Gisèle's body bare.

Gisèle placed her nude body in front of the wardrobe mirror, posing before her reflection. Conveying her objective through her actions, she beckoned Marguerite's eyes to follow the wandering path of her hands and they roved across the curves and swells of her flesh. She raked the tips of her fingers up her voluptuous thighs and drew curlicues into the creamy canvas of skin stretched across her taught stomach. Pausing, Gisèle rested her hands on her torso and ceased her ministrations. Her gaze alighted upon Marguerite, grasping her reaction through the imagery in the mirror. The girl's flushed skin, heaving bosom, and parted lips enraptured Gisèle and encouraged her subsequent maneuvers. With burning purpose, Gisèle glided her hand up her rib cage and settled it on the underside of her breast, caressing and squeezing the soft mound cupped within the palm of her hand.

"But he does _not_ please you." Gisèle parried breaking her gaze from the astonished reflection in the mirror and glanced at Marguerite over her shoulder. Pleased with the evident awakening, Gisèle's smile of satisfaction grew alongside Marguerite's pools of azure. Her alarmed but curious stare followed the path of Gisèle's other hand insinuating its desire as it slithered down the flesh below her navel towards the thatch of curls at the juncture of her thighs. "You are neither his lover nor his confidante."

"No, I am not." Marguerite cleared her throat, her voice trembled still. "For you see, I am both."

"You are his toy."

"I will not stand here and permit you to insult me!"

"If you wish to keep your benefactor, you will remain where you stand. You have erred."

"In what manner? Albeit Captain Butler's temper is unpredictable, it is still I who is to be found at his side."

"For how long?" The dressing gown fluttered at Gisele's feet as she slid the satin over her shoulders while directing herself towards Marguerite. "To capture his regard has not been as simple a task as you had imagined, has it not? Oh, what dirty little tricks must have played in your mind when you set about to tame Captain Butler. He was to be enraptured by you. Then, the besotted fool would pamper you, revel in your charms, adore you, worship you—and for what, an occasional rubbing?"

"He has declared his regard. You expose your own ignorance by mistaking the reserve in his manner as conviction that he is in possession of a detached heart."

"And you truly believe that you have engaged his tender heart?"

Gisèle circled. Both women curved their necks, their eyes capturing the glare of the other. Marguerite gasped, fighting against the imaginary knot strangling her throat as Madame Lausier closed in on her prized kill with the fall of each ensuing step.

"Yes."

Gisèle stood behind Marguerite dragging her fingers across a sea of diamonds enveloping her throat. Marguerite gulped down some air and crossed her hands over her chest. She rubbed her arms stippling from the foreign sensation of a woman's bare breasts caressing the curve of her back, of distended nipples tickling her soft skin. A frisson ignited in the pit of her stomach feeling Gisèle's sultry breath whispering in her ear. "You are a stupid girl."

Resolute in maintaining her purchase, Marguerite rocked and swayed against Gisèle's insistent tugging at the buttons lining the back of her gown. Poise was the victim, battered by a chorus of unspoken fears. "You are a stray he found scratching at his door. He took you in and claimed you for his pet—his pretty little pussy."

The infamy of being stripped of her every material and spiritual possession would have roused Marguerite to flee the room, had it not been for the burgeoning need to quench a heavy ache stirring deep within her.

"Close your eyes, for they deceive you." Gisèle peeled away the bodice of Marguerite's gown, discarding it with a toss of her wrist. Her hands circled the waistband of Marguerite's skirts in search of fastenings. "They speak of your embitterment and confusion, of your ignorance." A dismissive grunt earned Marguerite a yank on her corset alongside a rhetorical strike across the cheek. "What do you know of seduction—other than spreading your knees?"

"If that is what you think of me, Madame, then you are a fool!"

"Ah, so I see." Gisèle sneered kicking away the petticoat and pantalets crumpled at her feet as she slithered around to face Marguerite. Eyes transfixed on the expression of the other while their flesh meshed together, separated only by a flagging restraint. So near was she that Marguerite could the taste Gisèle's breath on her tongue. "He must make you purr."

Marguerite ran her tongue across her parted, swollen lips—a finger grazed the edge of her stocking, a flush crept down her body, and the seductive lilt droned on. "As a mistress, you can not live on the charity of a man that is merely in want of a vessel for his spendings. Your gentleman must need you, _ache_ for you—mind, body, and soul. It is clear that you have yet to pierce your captain's heart, but all is not lost. Discover the one true desire that stirs his blood and only then will he cry out for _you_.

"Never forget that your arrangement is not now, nor ever shall be, about love. Every touch, every taste, every moan has its price. If you are wise, you will follow my example and heed my words."

Gisèle took Marguerite by the hand guiding her towards the bed. "Come."

"I must see to Captain Butler."

"Your captain is not a boy and has been engaged in his own pursuits. Fear not, for he is a generous man and will not begrudge you a few moments of pleasure for yourself."

In sitting upon the bedclothes, Marguerite unconsciously opened her legs to accommodate Gisèle as she butted her knees against the mattress. Gisèle cupped Marguerite by her shoulders, ushering her backwards to recline amid the linen-covered down. The new advantage from behind the canopy's tapestry enlightened Marguerite as to Madame Lausier's predilections: a tray perched upon an obscure table housing a long pipe carved out of bamboo and jade, a matching covered dish, a small oil lamp. Her eyes questioned the demimondaine as to what was to be her fate for that evening.

"Ah, sweet Marguerite, the stars of night have yet to bow to the dawning of the sun and there is much more of Paris for you to discover. You have danced with la fée verte, and now you shall lie with la fée brune."

Marguerite nodded releasing a contented sigh as she descended, succumbing to the intoxicating aura borne from the gentle ministrations of serpentine hands. Gisèle shifted her frank approbation from Marguerite's body onto the choker. Exuding the serenity of a angel, Marguerite whispered thickly, "Rhett's gift is very beautiful, is it not?"

"Yes, it is a spectacular piece of jewelry. I have never seen its equal," Gisèle smiled in return, her finger stroking each magnificent gemstone that kissed Marguerite's skin, "and in this presentation, it is much more agreeable to the eye.

"However, you must abstain from wearing this parure until you have acted upon my advisement. Procure a gown made from a silk that is of a shade no deeper than that of your skin. When you prance about in a dress dyed in earthen tones you muddle the brilliancy of this set. The observer knows not where to direct their praise, whether it be the jewels or the gown." Gisèle's finger lingered at the bottom-most gem, setting off a delicious shiver in Marguerite as it burned trail in between her breasts. "When your gown is the color of ivory, of softness and purity, the beholder can do naught but worship these remarkable emeralds."

* * *

"Ella! Ice cream is meant to be eaten not admired." Scarlett snatched the napkin up from her lap and dunked the crumpled corner in her water glass. She tugged at the linen as she scraped away the sticky pink mess trickling down the front of Ella's pinafore. "God's nightgown! You wear nothing but pink day in and day out, and yet somehow your strawberry ice cream could only manage to dribble down your white smock."

"Sorry, Mother." Ella mumbled raising both hands up and stretching her arms wide until they could stretch no further while still gripping a spoon dripping over with a large dollop of melting ice cream. Scarlett worked her scowl around with the selfsame vigor as the stains in Ella's dress. She glanced at her daughter's comical attempt to ameliorate a second round of chastisement. Grimacing, Ella craned her neck, extending her chin out to the point of contortion while she gradually circled her arm back around towards her mouth.

Scarlett withdrew her fussing at the pinafore and pulled back meeting Ella's eyes. With limited options of appeasement available to a young girl, Ella wiped the strands of hair away from her cheeks and prevailed upon her mother's reserve of patience by pulling a mildly contrite moreover blindingly impish smile. In the days that followed the former life of which her family had once led in Atlanta, more often than not, Scarlett had embarked upon a most pleasant discovery in that her children could easily coax her out of a bad humor. What could be done other than to return Ella's smile?

"What am I going to do with you, young lady?" Scarlett grabbed Ella by the chin and lifted her head. Anticipating success, Ella artfully repeated her silent entreaty with ever so much more emotion and beamed at her mother. Scarlett puckered to smooth out her dimples and kissed Ella on the forehead. "Well, Miss Ella Lorena, I reckon I'll just have to keep you around until I figure something out."

Twisting her basque, Scarlett kept a steady gaze upon Wade until he could sensed the nonverbal, motherly command and dutifully lifted his nose up from his book splayed on the top of the parlor's wrought iron table in front of him.

"Yes, Mother?" Wade crooned with devilishly cherubic eyes.

Leaning in, Scarlett hesitated, tilting her head to the side. "Why Ella, I suppose that if I continued in such a manner, we would suffer a great calamity for surely Wade Hamilton would die of shame if his own mother were to kiss him right here in public."

"Mother!" Wade scrunched his bright red neck down until his bottom lip touched collar. Scarlett settled on a quick tousle of his hair and winked at Ella over her shoulder, who clamped both hands over her mouth catching a slew of giggles.

"Alright, you two ragamuffins, each of you finish your ice cream. We must hurry and be on our way."

"Is Mr. Trentholm coming for a visit?" Ella spouted, aiming a liberal spoonful of soupy-sweet confection towards her mouth.

"Take smaller bites, Ella, or you will get a headache." Scarlett made one last swipe at Ella's smock while purposely turning her back away from the crestfallen expression transforming Wade's countenance. "Maybe." Scarlett muttered. She cleared here throat and spoke with unnecessary conviction. "Although, his visit is not the reason that we need to make our way. I simply have a busy afternoon, is all. At two o'clock, I am to interview a Mrs. Briggstone about the governess position for Ella... and I have some paperwork that I must look over... and... and..."

"But you do expect Mr. Trentholm to call on you this afternoon, don't you, Mother?" Wade's accusatory voice snipped through the haphazard yarn of obfuscation Scarlett had spun.

Scarlett's thick lashes hid the anxiety roiling within her emerald eyes. She lowered her head and began a meticulous inventory of reconstituting her morning toilette: smoothing over the taffeta laden darts in her bodice and down her skirting, picking away at lint on the tidy trim, adjusting the pins in her French twist.

She peered up from underneath a hooded brow and surveyed the ice cream parlor, fearing that their discussion had somehow attracted glances from curiosity seekers. Although many months were left behind in their distant past, Scarlett chafed at Norfolk's perpetual interest in her private life. Forever branded the very pretty and very private Widow Hamilton, Scarlett along with her two 'dear, sweet' children lived underneath an unremitting cloud, soiled by eternal speculation.

"Yes."

"I like Mr. Trentholm." Ella chirped. "He is so very handsome and so very nice—and he always brings me presents."

"They _all_ bring presents, Ella." Wade drawled. Each syllable of every word dripped with a nastiness so uncanny in its familiarity that it snapped Scarlett's head back.

"Wade Hampton!"

"It is true, Mother."

"This isn't about Mr. Trentholm, is it?" Scarlett cleared her throat and allowed her gaze to drifted out the window and into the serenity of the cerulean sky above the Chesapeake Bay. "Uncle Rhett is gone, Wade, and he is never coming back."

"I'm so very glad that Captain Butler is gone and I hope that he never comes back!" Wade slammed his book shut and shoved it against his sundae glass. "And he's NOT my uncle!"

"My, my, what a clever child I have. It was right smart of you to fuss about during an outing when I can not rightly box your ears." Scarlett paused and drew in a cleansing breath through flared nostrils. "Well, since I can do nothing but sit here and listen, go on and say what you have to say."

Wade screwed his eyes into slits and shored up his brave bottom lip. "Ella and I don't need any more gifts from Mr. Trentholm—or Captain Butler—or anyone else!"

"WHAT?!"

"Hush, Ella!" Wade hissed. He turned back to Scarlett, casting every last bit of his flushed-face acrimony directly into her lap. "When Captain Butler left, you said that me and Ella were your family and that we were all that you would ever need. So why do you let Mr. Trentholm keep coming around?"

"My acquaintance with Mr. Trentholm is no concern of yours."

"You said that I could have my say—so I'm saying! We have been doing just fine without him!"

"Are you quite finished? Have you spoken your peace?"

Wade punctuated his displeasure by tucking his features inwards toward his nose. He crossed his arms over his chest and bounced himself backwards against the scrollwork of the chair, never breaking his uncompromising glare locked in battle with Scarlett.

"Fine. Now I believe that it is high time for me to have my say." Scarlett crouched down, leaning in closer to Wade. His brazenness remained intact, determined to weather her set jaw and menacing look... until Scarlett began to enunciate each word through clenched teeth. "You listen to me, young man, and you had best listen good. I am your _mother_ and you will do as I say— _without question!_ You made your sentiments right clear, that in spite of the kind and generous treatment imparted, you still find yourself not so terribly fond of Mr. Trentholm.

"Well frankly, my darling boy, you can nigh on despise the man until the stars fall from the heavens, but when you are in his presence, you will treat him with the respect that is due to your elders. In his company, you will be everything that is pleasant and courteous—and when spoken to, you may only address him as 'Mr. Trentholm' or 'sir'."

Scarlett's cool stare frosted further, capturing Wade midway through the act of exposing a whiff of mutiny. She yanked on his sleeve jolting him out of his slouching petulance and snarled, "and God help you if I _ever_ catch those eyes of yours rolling back up into your head again! Do I make _myself_ clear, Wade Hampton Hamilton?"

Desperate in his search for an ally to bolster his cause, Wade raised calf-like eyes to his splotchy, red-cheeked sibling only to be met by a bug-eyed and gobsmacked Ella slinking down her chair. He cautioned a sideways glance at Scarlett, mustering one final look before dropping his gaze to his lap.

"Yes, ma'am."

Scarlett's eyes cut across the top of table and landed on Ella. Nearly supine in her seat, Ella held up high her spoon oozing over with strawberry goo. "Were you listening good, Miss Ella? Must I repeat myself?"

"No—I-I mean, yes ma'am! No ma'am!"

"Then it is settled."

All eyes fell to the lump of sodden custard as it landed with a plop.

"God's nightgown!"

* * *

Never had she conspired to gain a situation that could only be described in the best of terms as precarious.

Suffering through the two-hour toilette necessary to create a vision of ethereal beauty for no particular purpose was most distasteful. Marguerite crossed her arms over her chest and pressed her forehead against the window pane of their hotel suite. Nurturing a stunted cigarette, an evaporating cocktail, and a frothing discontent, she stared without seeing the distant stars decorating the evening sky, an awakening of the city below from its daily slumber. The street lamps of Paris bore their brightness down upon the cobblestone pathways, beckoning the lives of the night and chasing away the looming shadows.

Relentless and pounding, the incessant churning of her reflections cloaked her in a foreboding shroud of irony that was not to be lifted. She stood in the same spot, turning over the same unpleasant realities that had occupied her thoughts twelve hours prior.

Marguerite scowled keeping her eyes riveted to the picturesque scenery outside of the hotel room window. From the moment she arose from her bed earlier that day, trepidation thickened the air. Not a moment of privacy could be had when a servant intruded upon her solitude as he entered the suite. The bellman's presence was a harbinger. In that moment, all of her anticipation of enjoying the life of a Parisian on a beautiful spring day dissipated along with the frosted wisps of morning air reaching for the rising sun.

Rhett's weekly packet had arrived.

From the periphery of her vision she watched the servant's graceful movements. His gloved fingers, pristine in white, first situated then refashioned Rhett's correspondence of various shapes and sizes from America. Single edition newspapers traversing the coasts—the _New York Tribune_ , the _Washington Evening Star_ , the _Charleston Courier_ , the _Times-Picayune_ , and the _Atlanta Constitution_ —were folded with precision and fanned out in proper order along the top left border of the elegant mahogany escritoire. Anchoring the opposite corner, lifeless parcels bound with twine and weary from travel were constructed into a small but impressive monument. Between the parcels and newsprint, a salver would proudly display the cards stacked into neat columns from the latest round of callers vying for a position of favor. It did not portend whether the card originated from a man or a woman, for business or pleasure. Each individual moniker stamped in ink was a feigned cordiality, a disguise aimed at furthering the ambition of a bearer hell-bent in a singular quest—to bed Rhett.

Held in reserve, the center of the desk was designated for Rhett's letters. Straining the confines of its thin black ribbon, the always plentiful bundle of documents would marshal his unflagging attention for the remainder of the morn.

Intent upon insinuating herself into Rhett's privacy, Marguerite sniffed at the bellman exiting the room as she traversed the length of the rug towards the desk. Glancing at the shining hands adorning the face of the mantle clock, she had but mere moments before Rhett would return from his early morning stroll. Curbing the urge within her tingling fingertips to skim across the bounty, she crossed her arms and held together the sides of her morning dress while hovering over the desk. Her eyes settled upon the cards, allowing that the majority were derived from Mdme. Lausier's soiree thrice evenings ago, and the question had been answered before it was formulated. As if by a divine revelation, a ray of light from the morning sun broke through the window panes, pinpointing the foil-embossed, gold stencil adorning Mdme. Gisèle Lausier's personal card.

Marguerite examined the desk and closed her eyes, envisioning the vexatious sequence of events as they were undoubtedly about to unfold. Regardless of his disposition prior, Rhett would stalk into the suite steady in his advance towards the escritoire. He would remove his coat and hat, and loosen his cravat without compromising the haste of his stride nor the sudden onset of a fearsome mood. Rhett would place himself before the desk with his hands on his hips and stare at the contents. Intense and contemplative, his gaze would skip across the desk while his hands busied themselves, unfastening cuffs and rolling up shirt sleeves.

Rhett would begin with the packages, assigning minimal attention to the parcels. He would raise each box, discern its origin, and drop it back into place. Next, his long fingers would follow his eyes as he would brush a cursory stroke across the layered stacks of calling cards. Rhett would then shift his focus to the newsprint, shuffle through the mastheads glancing at each headline of the paper's top story. On occasion, he would set one issue off to the side for further inspection before the remainder were summarily dismissed—excepting for that one time. Weeks had passed, yet the haunting scene lurked in the recesses of her mind. She dared not question the spark that lit his fury when she chanced upon the scorched pages of a partially-burnt paper and shattered crystal strewn amidst the cinders in the fireplace.

Finally, he would shuffle his stance and place his hands back upon his hips. Often, he would take a backwards step. At times he would rub his hand over his mouth. Other times he would clench his eyes shut and pinch the bridge of his nose. The gesture mattered little. His actions spoke of an imperative to steel himself. Picking up the stack of letters, the released string would take a moment's flight before fluttering to the floor. Holding the bundle in one hand, his eyes would be affixed to the quadrant of the envelope reserved for the sender's address. One-by-one, his wrist flicked each missive back into a loose pile on the desk.

The conclusion was preordained. Before the last envelope would fall, a pained expression writ his features and his vile temper would blacken precipitously and persevere for days.

Marguerite sighed and turned her head towards the door. Beckoned by the low seductive drawl, her skin prickled. "I see that my correspondence has arrived."

Later that afternoon, circumstances proved no better. The harsh glare of the mid-day sun penetrated through the umbrella shielding their table, plaguing their afternoon tea as Rhett and Marguerite lounged outside a local bistro on the outskirts of Paris. Rhett sat on the edge of his seat leaning heavily on his forearms resting on his thighs. Slumping forward, his stare would seek out and then latch onto one of the many melodic shouts in his study of another cog in the bustling city's economic machine. "Hé, là-bas! Hé, là-bas!" echoed the hackney cab drivers over their horses' hooves clopping up and down the streets in search of their next fare. A second-hand clothing dealer strode past their table chanting, "Marchand d'habits!", followed by a water carrier whistling as he hauled away his litres.

During the several weeks of trodding upon French soil, Marguerite had acclimated to the unceasing caterwauling rising up from the Paris streets and relished her mille-feuille. She skated her fork across the dessert plate and gathered up the remaining flakes of pastry flirting with a neglected dollop of mousse. Rhett winced at the high-pitch squeal of metal grating against the porcelain, the dish squawking of its maltreatment suffered at the hands of Marguerite's over-zealous cutlery.

"Do not scrape." Rhett's eyes directed her attention to the plate and his brows hidden underneath his hairline reprimanded her gaucherie.

Dabbing on a touch of melodrama, Marguerite flicked her wrist tossing the fork onto the plate followed by her napkin. Shoving the dish aside, she dove into her reticule purposely avoiding his dismissive rejoinder consisting of an overplayed eye roll. She summoned a deep breath of calming air through her quivering nostrils. Of late, necessity bade her to hone the delivery whence plying her trade—to feign something akin to compassion when aggravation was most sorely felt.

"Rhett?"

Rhett kept his profile intact as he swung his gaze in her general direction, granting her an audience by means of a churlish grunt. In lieu of withstanding another beastly silence that spanned the breadth of an afternoon, she endeavored. "We shall soon depart for America and there is still much of the city for us to conquer." Marguerite inveigled, twisting her hand around Rhett's forearm.

"If Renoir or Monet happened upon us on this glorious afternoon, how they would be struck by your loveliness. Would either master wish to capture the angelic vision that he beheld? Would his supreme talent be entirely worthy of your beauty or would the brush falter on the canvas?" Rhett nodded at a pedestrian glimpsing at their presentation of the idyllic urbane couple as he passed their table. "Although I wish to bear no injury to the gods of Impressionism in capturing your exulted beauty, I would be most grateful if you would oblige me in extinguishing your cigarette."

"It is hardly unfashionable." Marguerite jammed the cigarette in between her lips, her cheeks hollowing out as she sucked on the lit stick. Kicking her leg out, she flung it over her other knee and yanked the cigarette away from her mouth, spitting smoke into the air. " Lest you forget, my love, this _is_ Paris."

" 'Tis true. However, lest _you_ forget, my lady, that I was raised a Southerner, instilled with Charlestonian values—values which consider the act of smoking when adopted by a woman to be the epitome of vulgarity and unrefinement."

Marguerite visibly chafed at the carefully articulated delivery of each syllable in his edict. Her coo filtered through the snarl in her upper lip, "I might wonder what about my smoking that offends a proper Southern gentleman such as yourself while you, the great Captain Butler, partake of this selfsame wickedness."

A meager bubble of laughter burst from Rhett's chest. He regarded her wearing a one-sided grin, signaling that her rancor roused in him naught but a skosh of amused exasperation.

"If it would not be too terribly distressing, my lady, please indulge me and snuff out your cigarette."

Rhett snickered as she stabbed her cigarette into the mound of cigar ash in the tray with considerable gusto. He congratulated her with a pat on her hand. "My greatest reward in life is to serve you. Beseech away."

The condescending bastard.

"There are a few shops with some rare imports that I would wish to see."

"I was made to understand that your interest lie within whiling away your remaining days as a true Parisian."

"We have frequented museums and the opera on several occasions. I am much satisfied."

"No, my dear, I was referring to your wont for the more banal delights that entertain the masses. I had thought you intended to visit La Morgue."

She flinched at being caught out. The swinging staccato of her dancing knee picked up its pace.

"Do not scold yourself for indulging in such a notion. It is not so much an indictment of perversion as it is a natural curiosity for mankind to look upon the face of death."

Marguerite smiled releasing the breath she held in reserve. "Would you accompany me?"

"As a former soldier in the Confederate Army, I speak the Gospel truth when I say that my appetite for consuming morbid curiosities has been sated a long time ago. Thank you, but I believe I will decline the invitation. You spoke of shopping, dare I ask of the particular wares of these merchants that has enticed you?"

"Well... I happened upon a shop the other day. It is filled with nothing but goods from the Far East."

"The Far East? Am I to presume that this shop is an import house exclusive of Indochina?"

"I suppose so. Oh Rhett, everything was so unique and exotic."

An audible thud followed the drop of Rhett's foot erewhile relaxed atop his other knee. His twisted his torso draping his shoulders over the table. "I would suggest that you listen carefully, my little dove, because I will never repeat what I am about to say." Gone from his mien was the face of imperturbability. Marguerite saw only an undefinable glint in his steely glare set off by a corded muscle in his jaw beset with tension. "Throughout the year past, I have been well aware of your lubricities and your propensity for excess. If by patronizing this shop you seek to acquire certain paraphernalia to avail yourself of yet another unseemly vice, henceforth, my generosity will be withdrawn. I will _not_ support an addict."

"It is not what it would seem!" The excuse muddled forth in one measured exhalation. Marguerite drew her lips in between her teeth and waited for the unpleasantness to float past their table.

Up until his proclamation, Rhett had not vocalized his displeasure at her inglorious removal from Gisèle's boudoir in the hours immediately following the soirée. Venturing not to ponder the communiqué that had transpired between Rhett and Gisèle regarding her person, Marguerite could only draw upon fuzzy recollections. Lying prone and naked upon the golden bed, the bright morning light ruptured her lethargic form, beclouded by a thick afterglow of depravity and opiates. Her detached mind felt her naked and semi-impaired body being hoisted from the mattress. The child-maid yanked her out from her stupor and dressed her with haste. Flanked by footmen, Madame Lausier stood at the threshold of her bedroom chamber door and addressed Marguerite with a cool regard, informing her that Captain Butler would not deign to be present for her retrieval. Chucked into a nondescript carriage, Marguerite was subsequently hauled to Le Maurice. Her limbs defied rhythm, bobbing about as a pair of footmen lugged her past the kitchen and up the service staircase with all of the delicacy afforded a sack of potatoes.

"You misunderstand." She repeated with shining eyes rounded out in innocence. One could only hope that Rhett's impression of the unfortunate event would not be as defamatory as actuality. "I saw some furnishings—"

"Furnishings?"

"Yes. There are some exquisite articles of furniture that I wish to see. Oh, do say that you will come with me, won't you, Rhett? With your impeccable taste, I am certain that you will agree we simply can not depart Europe without acquiring a few pieces to ship back home."

"Home." Rhett mouthed the word with nary a sound, moving his lips as his tongue tasted the foreign sobriquet. His eyes drifted away as he stroked his mustache. "You are a delightful companion and I applaud your single-minded certitude. I care not to bring forth your disappointment."

Marguerite held her head up. "Have I not served you well?"

"Indeed. It is in your care, perhaps, that I have found contentment." Rhett placed his chin to his chest, pulling in a deep breath before turning his indecipherable gaze back to her. "What do you want of me?"

"Nothing more than what any other woman would want."

Rhett straightened his shoulders and sighed heavily once more. He shook his head and averted his sight, seeking out a new distraction to ponder. Marguerite sat in wait, stiffening the rod in her back and lowering the delicate veil of well-bred civility over her features.

"As you are not unlike any other woman, you possess a singular commodity from which to barter. I fear that you have been injudicious in establishing your price."

Meant to impress Rhett with her forbearance, her holy veil of all that was genteel only served as a threat to her own asphyxiation.

"And as you are no different from any other man, by choosing me above all others, you have eschewed to be bound in cotton, knowing that in me you would be swaddled in silk."

"I applaud your formation of an excellent allegory, but behind the suggestion, I find the logic faulty." Rhett volleyed his back-handed approbation. "The value of a piece of silk is dependent upon a myriad of factors that extend beyond its prettiness. When bartering one must take into consideration the many great variances in style and quality—whether it be the cloth or the woman."

"Am I to presume that this is the standard by which you judge all women? In your regard, is a beautiful woman nothing more than an ignoble wretch wielding a steel trap underneath her skirts?"

"I never laid claim to the notion that a beautiful woman, or for that matter, any woman has no value beyond her 'steel trap'. I contend that in the manner in which a woman knowingly uses her body to raise her circumstances does not necessarily condemn her to being a whore." Rhett cocked a brow. "My dear child, you appear unconvinced. Do you consider yourself to be my only kept woman? What manner of a man am I that has been imprinted upon your mind—an uncaring lout or a lucky simpleton? Believe me when I say that I have seen damn near every form of stratagem ever concocted by a woman wielding her 'steel trap'. Dare I shock you by enumerating?"

Marguerite donned her diffidence by tilting her head to the side to meet her shrugging shoulder and running her tongue along the underside of her top lip.

"Very well, let us begin with generalities. Throughout my travels of various city ports around the globe, I have encountered a handful of charmers leaping out from within the shadows of a back alley, eager to offer a weary sailor glad tidings. On many an occasion, along with her going rate, the strumpet would often propose a tad extra titillation with my Thrup'ny Upright in exchange for depleting my hip flask.

"Now in terms of specifics, there was an instance when a lovely girl, who, in collusion with her dear friend, wished to establish a unique friendship among the three of us. It was their fervent desire that I would be the financial windfall for both women by availing myself of naught a single but a pair of mistresses—or as the Parisians termed it so eloquently, a ménage à trois."

Marguerite rolled her eyes and pinched her lips together. Rhett held up his open hand, successfully abating the forthcoming snit.

"Whilst making my way through Europe on a tour of unbridled debauchery, I belatedly discovered that the young, ravishing beauty of which I had repeatedly tumbled was a lady of considerable rank. It appeared that she had grown weary of the fat, indolent toad that she had married and was merely in want of a bit of intrigue. I shall spare your sensibilities the gory details of my great misadventure—only to add that despite its deification in romantic tomes, duels can be quite the messy business."

"What of it?! How does your being a blackguard affect me?"

"Only of this am I certain, my lady. I have been witness to every deceit imaginable to man and your assiduous scheming is no exception. As to how this affects you, I must offer that I am at a point in my life in which I no longer have any desire to play games."

"Ours is not a game."

"Is it not? Does not the meaning of the word 'game' depend upon the participant's motives? Let us take yourself as an example. In discerning the intent behind your actions, would I be just in casting judgment down upon you? Shall I crown you the innocent victim or indict you a tawdry whore?"

"I don't believe that you give a lick about mine or any other woman's motive, Captain Butler." Marguerite trilled. Fluttering lashes and pouting lips sugared her taunt. "And I would lay _all_ my money down that you have never tasted a woman that you had _not_ damned a whore."

"You ignorant little bitch!"

Rhett lunged across the table and grabbed her wrist, catching Marguerite as she flung herself back in the chair. Her eyes bulged with evident shock. She cowered at the venom Rhett spat from his tongue. And just as suddenly as his strike, a flash of pain clouded over his enlivened eyes and he shook his hand, tossing away her arm. Rubbing the heels of his hands against his eyes, a morose calm settled upon him as he dragged his open palms down his face. "Nothing could be further from the truth."

There was something harrowing about his manner, in his tone. It bled of rawness and its chill seeped into her bones. Rhett grimaced and with his head bowed, spoke in a dull yet rough voice that was nearly inaudible. "There was a time... that one time... when one of God's most glorious creations stood before me and offered herself up, begging me to take her for a mere pittance. For a few hundred dollars, she was willing to sacrifice her virtue and her dignity to save her family from starvation and ruin. And even in that moment, as I stood mired in the throes of the most bitter disappointment, I could not have admired her more."

Marguerite conceded another glance at the weary gentleman only to cast her eyes away in regret. His far off gaze held an unmistakable sheen and his features were both soft and rueful. A wry smile hid behind his mustache and she wondered if she had just heard a faint chuckle fall from his lips upon the utterance that was meant for his ears alone, " be it ever so... _hideous_... there's no place like home."

Rhett moved away from the table and reclaimed his perch on the edge of the chair, leaning his elbows on his knees. He let his clasped hands hang down and lifted his line of sight, absorbing the continuation of life making its way up and down the quaint Paris boulevard. "What I have to offer will never satisfy you."

"I believe that our happiness could be brought about in this arrangement. Perhaps if you were to allow its entry."

His jaw ground over her words suspended in the air between them. It was unclear as to whether his whisper of "perhaps" was meant to convince himself or her. Marguerite ignored his gesture as he patted her arm in his damn supercilious way. She placed her hand atop his and opened her mouth to speak but his illusory regard slipped away.

Like the strike of a bullwhip, a curse cracked the air and the table before her, not unlike her world, upended.

Marguerite started and partially stood from her chair, grappling the edge of the table to set its legs to rights. The shadow of his presence was a tipped chair, rocking back and forth on the brick in time with the table wobbling its own circular dance. The cigar flared but remained rolling around the ashtray. Her gaze rose then plummeted, flailing around the cafe like a bird with a broken wing.

In the passing of a mere second, the lone beat of a heart, he was gone.

Faring through the streets of Paris was no less treacherous than escaping the talons of demons clawing at her from within the walls of Charenton. Marguerite's boot heels clicked out a rhythm resonating of purpose and haste to intercept Rhett. Maintaining any semblance of dignity proved preposterous. After two blocks of circumventing shopkeepers, wares, carts, and flagstone, Marguerite stumbled in pain. She dropped her skirts and shuffled through the voluminous material, searching for the handkerchief hidden in her pocket. The azure tea-silk overlay of her dress swept a dirty path behind her as she limped along, striving to reclaim her pace.

She could feel her chignon wilting as she gathered copious amounts of fallen hair and swept them back away from her face. Her eyes skipped down the cross-street, a tapestry of buildings top-stitched together, separated by a string of back alleys. If Rhett had taken one turn, he was lost to her. Marguerite blotted the droplets of excess perspiration accumulating at the back of her neck and upper lip. She swallowed hard, trying to catch her breath. Pressing the handkerchief to her jostling bosom, she gathered up her skirts and pressed forward through every painful lunge of her chest as it clattered against her straining basque.

"Rhett! Oh, Rhett!" What good is it to beckon with a polite whisper when she needed to howl from the nave of the Narbonne Cathedral.

"Where are you?" She asked to no one. A stab of pain shot through her ankle with every clack of her heel. The cage of her bustle ricocheted mercilessly in time with her stride, grinding down the bones in her spine. Oh! How his eyes would sparkle with malicious glee after she roundly dismissed his derisive gibe in declaring her choice of fashion 'ludicrous'. She managed as far as the next block until her body seized from a cramp erupting from underneath her ribs. Her hand caught the brick of a nearby building as she held on to her ribcage. Bent over and gasping for air, her senses were permeated with the whirring sights, the septic smells, and discordant sounds whipping about her. Her nostrils flared, filling her lungs with air. Her line of sight remained low as her eyes hobbled down another nondescript side street.

Rhett.

After a lengthy second, and then a second glance, Marguerite realized that two buildings down from her, the lone man sitting on a bench hunched over with his head cradled in his hands was indeed Rhett. His shoulders rose and fell in a broken rhythm, laboring with each breath. His hands flexed open and his splayed fingers clawed through his hair. Slow and steady in her approach, Marguerite stiffened her basque, righted her attire, and dabbed the sweat from her decolletage. She crept towards him for he acted the prey—a trapped and bloodied animal. She advanced on the bench and bent over, reaching out to touch him.

"Rhett?"

Sensing rather than feeling, his body recoiled with a shudder that crested at his shoulders and raced down his back.

"Whatever is the matter?" Marguerite cried. She straightened herself and stepped backwards to survey their environs. Fighting the sun's afternoon glare, her hand shielded her eyes as she frantically sought an explanation for his sudden descent into madness. She scanned the scenery before her, but the little street was as serene as it was picturesque—a peddler with his cart on the corner, a farmer unloading his wagon, a young woman with a child purchasing some bread.

"Nothing." She clenched her hands pounding her fists into the layers of her ruined skirt. Overwrought and overtaken by confusion, she shrieked, "Nothing!"

Marguerite flung her curls over one shoulder sweeping her vision across the cursed provincial landscape and back again. No kings, no parades, no rioters, no villains—what misfortune bechanced before her very eyes that would cause such upheaval in Rhett?

It was nothing, she silently swore—

 _Nothing_... as her eyes met the curious backwards glance alighting the cherubic face of a little raven-haired girl, with bouncing curls and bright blue eyes, as she held onto her mother's hand.

The cigarette had been stubbed and her glass drained yet there she stood, motionless and tangled in frustration, as night crept up behind her. Her extended toilette only granted her a sticky hairline caked in grease and pooling with sweat. For the first time on that very evening, Rhett abandoned his after supper routine of lounging by the fireplace with a freshly-stoked cigar and a crystal warmed with brandy. Marguerite proceeded to the lowboy brimming with premium liquors and held up the carafe of bourbon to the light. Its contents had been depleted to a swallow.

An ungainly stumble over a wrinkle in the Aubusson rug proved no impediment for tenacious feet, for they lead her to the one place where the answer would reside, his escritoire. The desk not unlike the suite should have been organized. The surface would have been cleared, all packages and correspondence either disposed of or locked away. It was not. Calling cards of the Beau Monde spilled across the surface. Her foot booted the chair aside, clearing the space in front of the escritoire for which to hover.

She was assured of four.

Marguerite scoured over the chaotic sweeps and spirals inked in black on ivory billets. Her fingers foraged through the clutter, desperate to verify that all of the four cards embellished in gold foil were still present and accounted for.

She counted three.

Fortunate in that the escritoire's chair was nearby, she collapsed onto the seat crying, "Where did you go?"

* * *

"Let us attempt the next problem, shall we? One basket has two eggs in it and the other has seven. How many eggs in both?"

Arms flung out from behind Ella's back. Standing as wooden as a scarecrow in front of Mr. Trentholm, she delighted in being the proper pupil. She raised her left hand with confidence and ticked off two fingers. In watching the scene unfold, the corner of Scarlett's mouth began to wiggle. Ella's confidence drooped towards the floor at the precise moment when she discovered that she did not have seven fingers on her right hand, a necessity in solving the equation.

"Think naught of having two separate hands for counting, Ella." Mr. Trentholm chortled, uncurling the fingers on her right hand clenched into a tight little ball. "How about we try something different?" He held up her hands by the wrists. "Open both of your hands at once and stretch your fingers out as wide as you can. Now, how many fingers do you see before you, Ella?"

Ella's mouth opened and closed, wordlessly counting along each digit, a progression towards the obvious answer already known to her. "Ten fingers, Mr. Trentholm."

"Excellent, child. Now, imagine that you have ten fingers at your disposal to do your arithmetic, instead of five fingers on each hand."

Ella scrunched the freckles on her nose and wrinkled her forehead until a wide smile of comprehension broke out from the uncertainty expressed from her features.

"Right then. Close all of your fingers and we shall begin again. So, the first basket has two eggs and the second basket has seven. How many eggs in all?"

Two fingers stood at attention from Ella's left hand while Mr. Trentholm patted down a third finger jouncing with anticipation. "Start with two fingers, Ella. You will add seven more beginning with your third finger."

"Three, four, five..." Ella's voice drifted into silence as her smile crept outward with each iteration. "Nine! There are nine eggs altogether!"

"Indeed, there are nine eggs in all. Well done."

"Thank you, sir." Ella ducked her chin and clasped the sides of her dress. Her skirt billowed as she twirled, whipping the material from side to side.

"Your thanks is not necessary, my little lady. I see your beautiful smile and could wish for nothing more." Taking her hand, Mr. Trentholm pulled her toward him and brought her fingers to his lips, placing a soft kiss on her knuckles. It was her very first grown-up kiss—and Mr. Trentholm was so very handsome!

"Yes, thank you, Mr. Trentholm. You have been terribly kind in helping Ella with her figures." Scarlett pointedly admonished Ella with a mild scolding, more so out of a sense of propriety rather than irritation. "But we must not squander what little is left of his visit. Ella, please thank Mr. Trentholm for his time and finish your studies in your room. Mr. Trentholm and I have important matters to discuss."

"Is Mr. Trentholm going to help you set up a new store, Mother?" Ella turned large, artless eyes towards Mr. Trentholm. "Mr. Trentholm, did you know that we used to live in Atlanta and that Mother used to own a store?"

"Yes, I did. As a matter of fact, Ella, at one time your mother's store stocked my merchandise."

"Oh, yes. Now I remember! That is how you met Mother." The crinoline lining of Ella's skirt bounced in waves as she bobbed up and down on the tips of her toes. Scarlett, wearing a rueful grin, shook her head at Ella's penchant for exuberance on most anything and nearly everything.

"Actually, your mother and I met while we both were in Savannah. However, I can not but think on her store without a great deal of fondness. For you see, it was my knowledge of Kennedy's that allowed me to renew my acquaintance with your mother heretofore I had discovered that she had returned to Atlanta."

"Why, Kennedy is my name! Did you know that my last name is Kennedy, Mr. Trentholm?"

"Yes, ma'am." Mr. Trentholm wriggled his lips in suppressing his laugh.

"Ella—" Scarlett eyes ascended heavenwards and she sighed—for a considerable length of time, she sighed.

"Did you know that Kennedy's was named after my father, Mr. Frank Kennedy, Mr. Trentholm?"

"Indeed I did."

"Ella, you mustn't tire Mr. Trentholm with past matters that are of no concern to him. Now, do as you are told and go finish your studies."

"Yes, Mother." Ella turned towards Mr. Trentholm, wobbling her bestest ladylike curtsy that she could bestow upon him. "Thank for your help, Mr. Trentholm, and thank you for the pink ribbons. They're awfully pretty."

"You are most welcome, child."

"Did Mother remember to tell you that pink is my favorite color? Don't you think that pink is the most prettiest color in the whole wide world?"

"Ell- _a_... Loren _-a_... Kenne _-dy_!" Scarlett punctuated each appellative with a groan.

Ella quieted her flouncing and skipped over to where Scarlett sat on the divan. Mr. Trentholm settled against the high-back upholstered chair and stretched out one leg, intent on dissecting the familiar hand gestures employed by the pair when they were to part company. Scarlett and Ella would clasp their hands together while holding one of the charms, dangling from a two-inch chain, that was attached to Scarlett's bracelet.

Before her final departure from Atlanta, Scarlett had commissioned the bracelet, decorated with various trinkets and gemstones. Henceforth, she adopted a ritual only to be performed—and the symbolism to be understood—between herself and her daughter.

The sweet scene brightened a twinkle flickering deep within the provocative eyes of the handsome gentleman. On one particular occasion, he had questioned Scarlett as to the ceremony of the bracelet, and thereafter, vowed that he would never do so again. Scarlett gasped. Her body went rigid in her struggle to right her stricken expression. The incandescence, another arresting singularity of her bewitching eyes, had dulled. She had dulled. In speaking nary a word, Scarlett snatched her hand out from his hold and began threading the chain around the other baubles, securing the charm to her wrist. The aching quietude was understood: any explanation was a contrived excuse and not necessary in justifying her rashness.

Scarlett had just tucked away a vital piece of herself.

Laying his head into the corner back of the cream and cornflower blue brocade, Mr. Trentholm lost himself in his study of Scarlett. The transformation of her beauty at the onset of the mother-daughter rite never ceased to enthrall him. Regardless if she was immersed in the throes of a tirade or a bout of gaiety, the instant in which Ella would grasp onto the dazzling four-carat ruby suspended from her wrist, Scarlett visibly softened. Her eyes shone a brilliant jade and grew luminous; a delicate shade of rose touched her cheeks; and the hard lines of her angular jaw smoothed. In thus state, Scarlett was a creature of incomparable, indescribable loveliness. So beautiful and serene was she that a man could do naught but thank providence for the blessing of beholding her.

Swishing skirts awoke the tranquil lull that had descended upon Scarlett's parlor. Ella bounded from the room and Scarlett rose from the sofa. Scarlett furrowed her brow at the intensity of the gaze directed at her from Mr. Trentholm's rich, caramel-colored eyes. They were dark but soft—not hard nor empty and _never_ black.

"I'm terribly sorry, Andrew. I should not have allowed Ella to fritter away your time so." Scarlett pulled her lips in between her teeth. Pirouetting her skirts, she walked around the couch and placed her arms on the back, unaware of the imagery her presence had created. Surrounded by soft blue walls adorned in crisp white accents and comforted by the gentle sound of fluttering lace curtains, the proud Widow Hamilton stood before him as the apotheosis of a Southern lady.

"Do not apologize, Scarlett. She is a sweet girl." He dismissed her worried brow with a smile hinting of the considerable effect that her allure had upon him. Andrew cleared his throat and shifted in his chair. "I was hoping, however, to have a conversation with Wade. Is he here at present?"

"No. I do not expect him home until suppertime."

"Very well." Andrew clipped. A brief frown marred his aristocratic profile as he vacated his seat straightening out the stiffness in his knee. Retrieving his hip flask, he guided the neck to his mouth taking a measured swallow, grimacing from the trail burnishing his tongue. His gaze swept over her, and in noticing her discomfiture, spoke quietly. "Would it be presumptuous on my part to conclude that he was aware of my impending visit?"

The settee relieved the tension stirring between them in the form of a physical separation. Clasping his hands behind his back, Andrew stood before Scarlett who remained rooted in place from behind the couch. She ducked her head away from his penetrating eyes and traced the silk piping along the back's upholstery.

"I see."

"I'm sorry, Andrew. This behavior of his, it is so unlike him. He really is a fine boy—"

"Who has witnessed his mother endure more than her fair share of heartache." Andrew appended. "As much as I do not condone his actions, I can empathize with the boy. He longs to be the man of the family, but he recognizes that he does not yet have the authority nor the capacity." One side of Andrew's mouth lifted forming a wry smile, "And I daresay, authority notwithstanding, if Wade indeed had the capacity, I would find the young man encouraging my evacuation from these premises from behind the barrel of his pistol."

"That is not so."

Andrew merely arched his brows declaring his doubtfulness.

Scarlett remained quiet picking at a loose thread in the stitching. Andrew pulled her agitated hand away from the newly-created threadbare spot on the settee and placed a soft kiss in the bed her palm. His handsome countenance wore his disquietude as he pivoted on his leg and turned away from her. Wincing with every other step, his stride hastened him towards the picture window, opened to the welcoming scent of bluebells. Albeit the absence of a sudden gust of wind, Scarlett felt the change in the room and instinctively rubbed her arm against the cold shivers prickling her skin.

"Is your leg bothering you, Andrew?" Her melodic lilt warmed by genuine concern rendered his squared shoulders limp. He reached for his flask and partook of another dose, absorbing the fresh air provided by the cool breeze blowing off of the bay. "It is a trifle sore, sweetheart, but that is to be expected, especially when my travels been extensive. It is simply the result of an overburdened itinerary."

"How can I provide for you comfort?"

"Hear me out." Andrew glanced at her over his shoulder wearing a self-deprecating smile. "Ella mentioned her father's store and she seemed to infer that you are entertaining the notion of establishing a shop here in Norfolk. Is my assumption correct?"

"I have thought about it, yes, but it does not signify my intent. You and I have had countless discussions regarding my business interests, which have not excluded opening another store." Scarlett held up her hand and began tallying further possibilities. "There is also the new Norfolk railway line, tobacco, textiles, and mining, and—"

"You are quite right, we have had ample conversations on the subject of _your_ money." Andrew interjected. He wend his way back to the settee, reached across the Great Divide, and wrapped his hand around Scarlett's raised fingers.

"Come, sweetheart. Do sit down next to me." He tugged on her hand coaxing her around to the sitting side of the couch.

"Scarlett, the reason for the urgency of my trip is that I have been in the process of restructuring my businesses. It will benefit me greatly in alleviating the burden of having sole responsibility of managing all of my assets. At the culmination of this last trip, I had entered into an agreement with a colleague of mine, taking him on as a partner."

"Was that necessary?"

"I felt it was prudent, yes. Possessing a shrewd mind for business, you are well aware that monies squeezed from a complacent business are just as polluted and no more palatable than dank water from a stagnant pond. My partner will oversee the daily operations of my shipping and import businesses such as managing the books, maintenance, and sales. This separation will allow me to direct my focus on acquiring the funding to expand my holdings and secure new investments.

"This also means that I will no longer have to endure extended periods of travel as a lonely peddler meandering up and down the eastern seaboard." The shift in his posture brought Scarlett flush against his muscular thigh as they sat in a near embrace. He cupped Scarlett's hand stroking his thumb over her bare ring finger. Her breath stuttered, a bodily betrayal of her shame. Oddly enough, even after clinging to the resentment of having to wear the weighty adornment for most of her young life, there were fleeting moments when Scarlett was overwhelmed by the keen sensation of loss.

"I must also confess that I entertain no such affinity towards rehashing all those excursions to Atlanta," Andrew continued. "And my many clumsy attempts in seeking the good opinion of the proprietor of one store in particular. I will concede, albeit grudgingly, that I was quite confounded by the lovely owner of a mercantile referred to as Kennedy's. By all appearances this woman seemed to be quite put upon by my mere presence in her establishment."

"Well, my dear Mr. Trentholm, as a store owner I will attempt to educate you as to exactly how one goes about running a store. When working a deal, we proprietors must be very thorough in determining the character of the man when conducting business. In the case of yourself, when you walked through my door, I had to ask myself if you were a respectable gentleman that wished to offer me quality merchandise, or a snake oil salesman whistling out a careworn tune and peddling hysteria in a bottle."

"I take umbrage to so harsh an assessment! My offerings contained some of the finest imports from all over the globe. Any other mercantile owner in greater Atlanta would have been mighty proud to have been the exclusive retailer of those delicate, little porcelain figurines that once reposed upon your shelves."

"If you insist, sir." Scarlett sighed peeking up at him from underneath her lashes.

"Your dismissive nature suggests a differing opinion, Madam. Were the statuettes not equal to your standards, Mrs. Hamilton?" Andrew cocked an eyebrow and remained grim—save for the twitch of his pursed lips.

"Oh no, my good Mr. Trentholm. I recognized their markings, and there was no mistaking that your wares were of the finest quality, and hailing from lands far, far, far away, too."

"But... ?"

"But..." Scarlett brushed her tiny fingers down the length of his forearm. Her dimples blossomed as she leaned in whispering, "They were so _very_ ugly."

"Hush!" A hearty chuckle bubbled up from his chest and slipped off of his tongue. "Damn umbrage all to Hell! Minx."

The conviviality of the pair's teasing was much too brief for their liking. Andrew's smile slipped into a solemn grimace. Scarlett crinkled her forehead and begun to play with the Venetian lace on her scalloped cuff.

"Whatever will you do with all of your extra time, Andrew?"

"My thoughts tend towards relocating the company's headquarters and establishing a permanent residence."

"But not here in Norfolk." Scarlett presaged.

"I grant you, as a port city, Norfolk has its advantages. However, Richmond provides for a greater myriad of opportunities, both in business and within society."

"I'm afraid I do not understand where your thoughts lie. How will your plans affect my interest in building a new store?"

"I believe that it would be in our best interest if you altered your approach pursuant to your involvement in commerce by refraining from certain investments."

"Did I hear you correctly, _our_ best interest?" Scarlett cast Andrew a shocked—hastily dissolving into a seething—glare. Andrew swept his hand underneath Scarlett's own but his gesture of pacification was met by her hackles and they were arising precipitiously. "In truth, Andrew, since _my_ investments will be obtained from _my_ money, withdrawn from _my_ bank account, I fail to recognize how _my_ stake in a new store should arrest your concern!"

"Scarlett, I am fully aware of your enterprise and self-reliance. Please know that my reservations stem from a fierce regard for your health and good fortune." Many a tense minute had passed between the listless couple. Andrew forestalled the conversation, waiting with appreciable patience for Scarlett's breathing to regulate and the flush of her skin to recede. Once she had calmed herself, Andrew laced his fingers through hers and lowered his voice, fashioning a soothing approach. "To further clarify my position, would you be so agreeable as to answer me one question?"

"Nothing is ever gained if never asked."

"Then answer me thus—why are you here?"

Scarlett slapped her hands into the cushions and braced her feet, determined to launch herself from the settee but Andrew anticipated her. She was anchored in place by a firm hand gripping her arm. "Sweetheart, please. I must speak. In the year past since we have known each other, I have witnessed you uproot your family, sell off the majority of your worldly possessions, and move to the furthermost corner of the South that is still below the Mason-Dixon line.

"In carving out an existence here in Virginia, you were unequivocal in your desire to redeem yourself, to begin life anew. I must prevail upon you for an honest appraisal. Of your life in Atlanta, what did you leave behind that you now so fervently pray to recover—the castigation leveled against you, the injury inflicted upon your children, your excommunication?"

Rigid, silent, immobile, and dignified was Scarlett's pose as a forlorn tear trickled down her cheek.

"Sweetheart." Andrew breathed wiping away the wet trail with the pad of his thumb. "Surely, you must realize that I want for nothing but to care for you."

"I have been doing just fine on my own." Her trembling voice negated all conviction.

"Would you cuss at me if I countered? I had witnessed the Holier-Than-Thou citizens of Atlanta condemned you to Hell, all because the limited choices that were at your disposal defied the diktats of genteel society.

"Look at where you are at today, Scarlett. Look at what it has cost you. You are bereft a name, a home, and a life."

Her only answer was to face away from him unwilling to expose her lashes cresting with tears. Scarlett was a known entity to Andrew, and he knew that her will would not allow another teardrop to fall. Scarlett reached across her chest and placed her hand on the arm of the sofa. She raised the crumpled handkerchief balled up in her fist to her quivering lips.

"Sweetheart, what would make you believe that the denizens encamped within the homes along Crabbe Street would be any different than the matrons on Peachtree? Here in Norfolk, there are still plenty of old cats peeking out from behind their frilly curtains, just waiting to pounce on the lovely Widow Hamilton.

"I simply can no longer bear to see you struggle thusly knowing that my assistance and protection would provide for your comfort. In this, I must only conclude that it would be most beneficial for you to remain discriminate in your business ventures."

"But I always enjoyed working at Kennedy's." She mumbled into the cotton linen.

"Your own actions have convinced me that your enjoyment was derived from exercising your competitive spirit rather than the clerical tasks of operating a store. Truly Scarlett, I believe that your sharp mind could be challenged through other venues that are, if not more acceptable, at least more discreet."

"I'm no fool, Andrew." Scarlett lowered the handkerchief and spread the lace edging across her lap. "I realize that I have made a great many mistakes and they shan't ever be repeated, but I have been idle for far too long. I must do something."

"And so you shall, but I must insist that it not be in a profession that is seen as common and unwomanly." Andrew leaned back, ascertaining the severity of Scarlett's discontent exhibited by a protruding chin and eyes that were downcast and red-rimmed. "Do you find my stance intrusive?"

The span of his fingers, the size of hers twofold, were not strong enough to hold her hand nor her agitation. Scarlett twisted her delicate wrist and slipped her fingers out from his grasp. Andrew cupped her forearm to gather her towards him for a second time. She shrank from his touch, twining her hands together and burying them in her skirt.

"Please, Scarlett. Speak freely."

"Ever since the war there was not a living soul that I could rely upon—not really. I was on my own and I am right proud of what I have done, Andrew. I made Kennedy's a success and I built my mills up from dirt. There were a few people that helped me along the way, but mostly, the kindly advice offered by all of the high-and-mighty do-gooders was just their way of keeping me down." Scarlett kept her gaze averted as she set the smoothed and folded handkerchief on the seat next to her. In the forthcoming assertion, the slow yet steeled delivery of her avowal had intensified upon impact. "Nobody is ever going to lick me."

"I assume that in mentioning the interference of others, you were also alluding to the men that comprised the Scarlett O'Hara holy trinity of husbands. Well, if I recall correctly, Charles Hamilton was never graced by God to live long enough to truly be a husband to you, but I daresay, he would have been near as weak as the other two if he were to have survived the war."

"Weak?!"

"Yes, Scarlett. Weak. You have had your merry way in your two subsequent unions because you attached yourself to weak men."

"I should hardly think—"

"Frank Kennedy lacked a spine. Rhett Butler lacked a conscience."

"Should I have cause to regret confiding in you?" Scarlett extended her hand and leveraged the weight of her body, repositioning herself closer to the end of the couch and further away from him. She allowed Andrew only an examination of her profile, blemished by resentment. "As much as I have divulged of my previous life in Atlanta, don't you dare profess to me of your knowing the truths of either marriage. In the case of both matches, fault was equally dispersed. Both Mr. Kennedy and Captain Butler were—are—good men, Andrew."

"That is a mighty generous assessment." Andrew leapt from the divan, wincing as he landed on his sore knee. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he prowled the confines of the parlor while rendering his verdict. "I will allow, that what I knew of Frank Kennedy prior and what I have learned of him hence, he was a good sort of fellow who merely lacked the fortitude to withstand the headwinds of your iron will. Now, as for Rhett Butler—"

"Stop it!"

"No, I will not stop." But he did stop—directly in front and no less than two feet away from Scarlett. "This is the nearest that we ever have come to addressing the heart of the matter, Scarlett. To cease speaking now will only deny us hearing the words, it does nothing to negate their veracity—Rhett Butler is a fraud."

"You don't know the first thing about Captain Butler." Scarlett spat at him through gritted teeth.

"GODDAMMIT, SCARLETT!" He punctured the air with his hurling fist. "I know enough!"

Andrew thrust his hands into his hair raking livid knuckles across his skull. His chest heaved dragging the air into his lungs. His gaze, writ of agony and pinned to Scarlett, was cast off into the middle distance. Andrew squeezed his eyes shut and shook his chin as it fell onto his chest. Scarlett mimicked his current attitude, hanging her head and refusing to acknowledge him. Gall stayed her tongue.

"Pray, forgive my frustration. I forget myself." He gauged the upset he had caused Scarlett from underneath a hooded brow. Her unabated stare was affixed to Andrew's signet ring that he had been scraping around his pinky finger. "What I find unfathomable, Scarlett, is your eagerness to forgive the black-hearted cur for the substantial pain that he has levied against you. Your marriage to Butler was a means to an end—a convenience. He pursued you in order to slake his desire to bed you."

"That is not true!"

"How could it be anything but true? When a man takes a woman for his wife, he is honor-bound to safeguard her, to cherish her. A husband is the steady, loving hand that guides his bride along her life's journey. Again, Scarlett, I implore you—why are you here?" Within two long strides Andrew had seated himself next to Scarlett and secured her hand by lacing his fingers through hers. His finger caressed her skin as he traced the outline of her jaw. "You are here, living amongst strangers, surrounded by neither friends nor family, because Rhett Butler did not care enough to neither correct the missteps in your conduct nor protect your standing in Atlanta society."

Scarlett's pallor turned unnatural and her trembling hands marked her state of heightened distress. Andrew, careful in drawing Scarlett to his chest, wrapped her up in his embrace. Bound to his muscular warmth was Scarlett's undoing. She gasped as if being strangled and her breathing had been reduced to convulsions, choking on wave after wave of rising sobs. She wedged her hands between their crushed bodies and pushed her palms against his chest until she was granted her freedom. Heavy tears spilled unbidden.

"I was not a good wife to Rhe—" Her voice broke away. Grappling for her handkerchief, she was left to softly keen.

"No less than he was a good husband to you." Andrew countered with hesitancy, an indirect admission of his bewilderment. "Do not misconstrue my meaning, sweetheart. Any contention that I have with Butler lies within his dereliction in fulfilling his responsibilities as a husband."

"That is unjust, Andrew." Scarlett whimpered, pressing the handkerchief into the delicate flesh underneath her eyes, swelling with pain and burning to the touch.

Andrew coughed out a mirthless laugh.

"Holy Christ! Even after everything that the son of a bitch has done to you... Are—are you still in love him?"

She shook her head.

"Do—you—love—him?!"

"It is not that. It's—"

"No more, Scarlett! No more! I can not abide your defense of the indefensible."

Andrew locked Scarlett's wrists together with one hand and snatched away her handkerchief with the other. He steepled her fingers together and lowered her hands onto her lap. He met Scarlett's distraught stare with a look imploring for a moment of understanding and silence. Andrew cupped her cheeks and her fortitude sagged in compliance. Cradling her face in his hands, he lifted her chin, his thumbs rubbing away the fresh tears dripping from her lashes.

"The truth can not be spoken any louder. If Rhett Butler had loved you, had _truly_ loved you, then that contemptible bastard would not have failed you!"

Scarlett thrashed her head, twisting her neck against his hold.

"Scarlett, look at me!" He reached up into her hairline and buried his fingers into her thick tresses.

Scarlett writhed her head averting her eyes—anything to relieve her from the heat of his intense stare doggedly pursuing her. Andrew contracted his fingers tightening his grasp on her scalp. After giving Scarlett a small shake the desired effect had been achieved. She lifted inflamed, tear-stained eyes only to be taken aback by Andrew and the tears that were swimming within his own.

Never breaking their connection, he rested his forehead against hers and breathed, "I will NOT fail you!"

It was too much. It was just too much.

"What do you want from me?" Scarlett wailed, barely coherent through her tears. She grabbed Andrew by the wrists as the painful shudders wracked her body.

"I am asking you to embark upon a future wherein you love me as I love you. I am asking for you to place your trust in my love for you—to know that I will cherish and protect your heart. And as the man who loves you beyond all reason, I am begging you, my sweet Scarlett, to accept my hand and consent to be my wife."

* * *

© 2017-18 Olivia E. Landry. All Rights Reserved.


	8. The Last Waltz

A/N: Hello, my wonderful readers. I wish to offer my profuse apologies for the delay in posting. I would love to work on my writing full time but that is just not possible at this juncture in my life.

I wish I could adequately express how much I love and appreciate my YMCB supporters. The contributions and accolades that I have received have been such a morale booster in providing me with that extra push when I needed it. Thank you to everyone. Truly, Windies are a phenomenal bunch.

Much love goes out to my WINGMAN, Lady K. She is incredible—a fantastic sounding board, voice of reason, and occasional pot-stirrer. Thank you, dear Lady, for all of your assistance. All mistakes are mine.

"...Hoping for 1 more chapter at least this year pretty please.. ~Miasmum" **CHALLENGE ACCEPTED!** I don't know if I can do it, but I am going to try to pull off one more chappie by year's end...

...and on that note, I know these chapters are long, but there is a method to my madness. Because YCMB is being posted to a forum and due to lengthy absences on my part, when I post, I want to give you, dear reader, a little meat on the bone. As a reader, there is nothing more disheartening than to finally get that long-awaited notification of a story update only to find a posting of less than one thousand words. I've been there. I feel your pain. The other reason is that lengthy chapters are my mind's way of tricking myself into believing that the task at hand is less daunting. Twenty chapters is much more palatable than sixty. Believe it or not, with YMCB, we are only eight chapters (technically, seven and a prologue) in, but halfway through the story.

* * *

 _ **CONTENT WARNING:**_ Finally, I wish to thank all of the anti-angsties and the somewhat-squishies for continuing on with YMCB. I would like to restate that I never seek to intentionally offend anyone but I do understand that people have different sensitivity levels. With that being said, I wish to caution readers that the ending may push some of you outside the bounds of your comfort zone. Although, I did not put in a hard break, I have designated **'~*~'** to mark the beginning of the content. I believe that even if you skip over the text, the intent of the passage will not be lost. **For those that may have reservations but continue forth, be brave and hang on.** (Oh, and the beginning is a little 'M' as well)

* * *

 ** _Disclaimers:_**

 _•I need to reiterate that my goal at the onset of YMCB was to not sanitize Rhett nor Scarlett which invariably means that YMCB will not be everyone's cup of tea. I appreciate readers that are still willing to give YMCB a try, but I understand if you do not continue on with the story. Cheers._

 _•Like all authors, I LOVE comments and feedback that are constructive and useful. If the intended comment is meant to inflame, then it will be deleted. Sorry guys, no trolls on the YMCB board._

 _•I do not own nor profit from Margaret Mitchell's beautiful characters. In accordance with producing a transformative work, the source copyrighted elements derived from Gone With The Wind have been removed and Your Mistress, Captain B- has been submitted to the US Copyright Office for copyright protection, thereby the author retains all rights to the original creative work of this story._

* * *

 _ **Chapter 7**_

 _ **Summer, 1875**_

 _ **A Thousand Miles Apart**_

She knelt behind him undulating, her naked breasts slicking the perspiration around his back. Scraping her tongue across his shoulder blade, she licked away the salty sheen misting his body. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he glanced over his shoulder, flashing her a colorless smile.

The whiskey he held in his hand sloshed over the glass. Her audacity had not been anticipated. She had lifted his arm and ducked underneath, positioning herself in front of him. The maneuver allowed her to sit astride him and straddle his one leg. Wrapping his arm around her waist and leaning their bodies forward, he set his drink on the night stand while she nipped at the skin on his neck and the underside of his jaw. Furrowing her fingers through his thick hair, she brought her mouth to his—at the precise moment in which he had circumvented her lips to open the drawer.

Enfolding one arm around his neck, she rolled her hips along the length of his leg. His masculine, wiry hair abraded the soft flesh of her inner thighs as she purred, petting him with her damp grotto. She jounced on his knee as he fumbled through the clutter piled in the drawer. Her hand slid from his neck and a finger flicked his nipple. It drew an unhurried path to the valley of his torso and followed the line of his chest hair down to—

"Where is it?"

Shadows quaked. A drawer crashed to a close. She clutched his neck to prevent any further jostling, of which she was certain would entail her backside being unceremoniously dumped onto the floor.

"What?"

"What have you done with my sheath?"

The rounded, guileless eyes, the protruding, swollen lips, the heaving chest—she was the embodiment of a virginal ingénue. Splaying her hand, her fingers dove underneath his chest's patch of hair, massaging and soothing the warm skin. He snatched her wrist overextending her arm as he held her at a safe distance from his body.

"Answer me." Nearly bruising her flesh, his grip compelled her to squeal.

"It—it was there—"

She toppled forward into a tangle of sheets as he sprung from the bed and groped for his clothing. With dispatch, he managed to pull on his trousers and fasten a couple of buttons before ripping his shirt off of the chaise whilst fleeing her chamber. Storming footfalls rushed across the gallery. The artwork on the walls rattled long after his door battered against the hinges.

Grappling for a cocktail glass, he stood buttressed by the table and faced the window in all of his semi-dressed, disheveled glory. His tall frame burdened by a twisted mass of taut sinew straining over bone. His eyes pinched shut, blocking out the harsh glare from the light of a street lamp. A glance was hazarded to his periphery followed by a wavering step towards the armoire. The unfulfilled tumbler slid across the table as he made his way over to the finely crafted doors of the dark mahogany-stained cabinet.

Unsteady fingers opened the left door panel and pulled out the second drawer from the bottom. He shimmied off the sliver-thin sheet of wood, functioning as a false back, which had been inserted into the end piece of the drawer, and out clattered a small key. Ascending again, he guided the top drawer open, claiming the polished writing box reposing against velvet lining in the color of midnight.

He deposited the writing box on the bottom shelf of the armoire, and secured the key in the hole. In one soft click and one hard breath, the lock was discharged. Lifting the cover, he stared at the boon. Staring back at him were the remnants of a coveted life: a mound of daguerreotypes, ribbons, two locks of hair, a baby's necklace, a hand-stitched handkerchief, a note from a child—and the envelope with a crimp in the shape of a quarter moon in the corner.

As the months frittered away, excessive handling had tattered and stained the envelope, eventually eroding the linen fiber. Betimes it was his one true companion—whether the content encased within or nothing more than the envelope itself.

It contained everything. It had changed everything.

* * *

"Blanchard H. Sullivan, Esquire." Rhett held his hat in one hand and extended the other as he stepped into the gentleman's office. "To be in the presence of one of Louisiana's greatest legal minds is indeed an honor, sir."

"Well, I'll be," exclaimed the distinguished gentleman pumping Rhett's hand. "If it isn't one of the Confederacy's most infamous renegades and renowned profiteers. This very great honor is all mine, Captain Butler."

Ambling up to the lowboy, Blanchard H. Sullivan, nodded at Rhett to make himself comfortable in one of a matching set of wooden crates, masquerading as suitable seating, positioned in front of the utilitarian desk. The decanter clinked against identical tumblers, slicking each glass with color as it filled the pair with generous swallows of whiskey. Sullivan stepped away from the console and swung a sampling of Kentucky's finest sour mash at Rhett.

Adept at navigating rickety vessels over tempestuous seas, Rhett covered his drink with his palm. The floorboards bowed and crested with every lumbering step as Sullivan maneuvered toward his lopsided swivel chair. Sullivan set his drink on the desk and lowered himself into his seat, shifting his weight from one side to the other, wedging his bulk between the armrests. His groan of satisfaction rose above the cacophony of raucous protestations expelled from underneath him. Rhett paused, interrupting his autonomic reflexes. He held his unlit cigar in the air and rolled his eyes.

"Sully, in lieu of a protracted discussion on the havoc your dinner has just wreaked upon your delicate constitution, let us entertain the notion that the resounding cracker shot was fired by your chair."

"Ah, hell. Beg your pardon, Rhett." Sully slapped his hand on the desk, dust billowing into the stale air. "Look here, now you know how I love Tujague's brisket but sometimes I get a powerful hankering for that there shrimp Guy likes to scare up." Sully groaned, shimmying in his chair and giving his delicate constitution another stir. "Have mercy. That man's roumalade gives my innards the what for every goddamn time!"

Uncorking himself from his confines, Sully rotated his chair ninety degrees and popped out from his seat. He bounded to the window and hoisted the sash, inviting a spittle of pungent New Orleans air to venture within and partake in the affair. Rhett lifted the hand serving to smother his intake of oxygen from underneath his nose and raised his glass up in the air.

"Much obliged."

"Well, now that you're back in N'Orleans, is that sorry hide of yours fixing to stay put for a spell?"

"Your genteel breeding is absent you, Sully. When bechanced upon a dear old friend, one must extend heartfelt salutations, offer up a few banalities, and lavish said dear old friend with excessive flattery."

"Why in the holy hell would I do that?!" Sully's muttonchops flared out like the spines on a puffer. "While you've spent the better part of this past year gallivanting across Europe, I've been back here squirreling 'round after my own tail." Sully crammed himself down between the arm slats. Whirling back around, the man clobbered his hands down on the desk and dropped anchor. The S.S. Sully was coming about. "And besides, you look like hammered shit!"

"It is a damn fine sight to see you, too, Sully."

After a few chest rumbles had been elicited from the dispensing of the rising-to-well-nigh-art-form pleasantries, the gentlemen eased into the next step of the conversational rigmarole.

"Say, Rhett, have you heard of this new fellow passing through town? Goes by the name of Doc Holliday. A good ol' Georgia boy, I hear. Came by way of Philadelphia, on his way to Texas. Been spotted at the tables down on Gallatin."

"At the Amsterdam House?"

"Mmhm. And The Green Tree."

"Young fellow?"

"Mmhm."

"Has he found the folks down here to be hospitable?"

"Nope. Can't rightly say that he has. Folks 'round here haven't taken a shine to him—once he plumb cleaned up at the tables and all."

"Maybe the young buck is merely in want of some mentoring in social etiquette?"

"From the likes of a seasoned gambler, I presume? Best hurry if you are to make the fellow's acquaintance. I suspect he'll be hightailing it out of town soon enough."

In unison, Sully cast his eyes while Rhett cocked his head at the patter coming from the other side of the black walnut door.

"That would be Alfred." Sully cleared an opening in the center of his desk, shoving stacks of papers into all four corners. "Come in."

"A new clerk?"

"Not precisely, no. My sister's boy."

"You asked for Ca-Cap'n Butler's file, Uncle—er, sir?" A high-pitched lilt squeaked out from a crown of sandy curls and docile eyes peeping through a slice of opened door.

"Well? Don't just stand there stiff as a week-old turd! Bring it on over here!"

Barely fifteen years of age and hardly outgrown his knickerbockers, Alfred's timid step stuttered as he loped in with Rhett's dossier. The fair-skinned boy shied a wide girth around the fabled blackguard and placed the folder into Sully's outstretched hand. Alfred took a reverential step backwards away from Rhett, nearly toppling into the bookcase set in the corner. Readying himself for the cursory inspection, he straightened his shirt and tucked it around his suspenders and down his breeches. His palm flattened the curls that sprung out from his skewed side part, and his eyes watched his feet rub off the scuffs marking the tips of his shoes.

"Open your mouth and greet Captain Butler, boy."

"I-it is a right privilege to meet you, sir." Alfred wrapped one arm around his torso and the other behind his back, and extended his bow below the waist. He propelled himself upright, staring in open-mouth wonder at Rhett for an incomprehensible amount of time until the romantic idolatry of youth freed his tongue. "Did you really steal all that gold, Cap'n Butler?"

"Alfred." Rhett nodded with a smile that could have damned near blinded the Devil himself. "The honor is all mine, son."

Glancing up from another round of vigorous pecking and sorting, Sully smacked a pile of documents onto the desk and sighed. "Close your mouth, boy."

He then snapped his fingers and hiked his thumb at the exit, accelerating Alfred's departure.

"Your nephew seems a mite... timid, Sully."

"The boy's got a sound mind. All he needs is a little learning."

"A trip down to Basin Street might be just the learning that would improve the soundness of his mind."

"Whatever chicanery you're conjuring up, get it out of your head, Butler." Sully's brows slammed down his nose. "And don't you start thundering at him on your way out, neither. I ain't about to send that boy back on home to his mama after he'd done pissed himself!"

Rhett pitched his open hands high above his head in surrender. The fiendish cigar still perched in the corner of his mouth wiggled with delight. Relaxing in the chair, he crossed his ankle on top of his knee and lounged against the backrest while Sully continued to prioritize Rhett's folderful of life's little inconveniences.

Sully gathered up the thick envelopes into his even thicker fingers, the substance of each missive mirroring the one prior. Aligning the bottoms with a crack on the desk, he turned them on their side, and for good measure, whacked the surface once more. Propping his elbow on the corner of the desktop, Sully held the bundle in the air, suspending the envelopes over the ledge.

"Five."

Rhett altered his posture and closed off his expression, settling bereft, black eyes on a distant point in space. With a slight shake of his head, he dismissed the overture along with the unspoken admonition. Sully loosened his grip allowing each of the five envelopes to slide from his palm and cascade into a waste bin biding below. Rhett directed his attention towards the window, expelling a sullen breath. Sully followed suit, quieting his boisterous baritone. "They're just going to keep on coming, Rhett."

Rhett gestured at the docket, the tick in his jaw indicating his interest resided only with any subsequent order of business. "So, what has kept our industrious Mr. Smith occupied during my pilgrimage?"

"Pilgrimage? Is that what they are calling it nowadays?"

"Mission... Hegira... Odyssey..." Rhett bandied about amended nomenclatures at a pair of crusty, silver brows incrementally rising with each utterance. "Semantics aside, myself being a tad weary as of late, it was imperative that I felt the gentle touch of divine enlightenment upon my brow."

"By spending the past six months befouling the motherland of all and sundry?"

"I grant you, the route to my spiritual awakening was not necessarily the devout journey that I had initially envisioned."

Sully guffawed at Rhett's shrugging shoulders. "Well, it appears that Mr. Smith has been a busy fellow as of late. He and his partner have set up a new company, A. R. Smith—incorporated out of Ohio. They have interests here in N'Orleans and along the Atlantic Seaboard."

"What is their billing?"

"They claim to be commission merchants."

"Are they cotton factors?"

"Yes and no. They have dealt in cotton and tobacco, but my understanding is that they have also dabbled in consignments, as well as shipping—imports, exports, and the like. The assets of the partnership consist of a couple of steamers and a majority stake in a transport consortium. But in truth, they're nothing more than your every day, run-of-the-mill opportunists—"

"Praying to hit the head on a dime, I reckon." Rhett interjected smoothing down the ends of his mustache. What began as a twinkle in his eye ignited into a blaze. "I would presume, that at present, these gentlemen are aggressively seeking an ungodly amount of capital to further their various business interests."

"A presumption of any sort is not necessary. If an _ungodly_ rich investor—such as yourself—were to enter into a courtship with the company's principles, I believe that the gentlemen would be most ardent lovers. Now I ask you, Captain Butler, what is sweeter than an eager whore?"

"Hmm." Underlying deviltry could not be quelled, rearing to the surface as the corners of Rhett's mouth raised to the rafters. "I daresay, it has been ages since I've had a good stroking."

Sully grunted and grinned. "Well, when the occasion arises, you know where to find me."

Sully exhaled, and the second hand on the clock never ceased. Rhett exhaled, and the atmosphere deflated.

Sully's countenance grew pensive as he wiped down the bristles fringing his jowls. The dreaded moment had arrived when inconsequential business matters were set aside. Rhett slumped in the chair resting his elbows on his knees. He bowed his head below his shoulders and gazed up at Sully, questioning him from underneath hooded brows.

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

Sully winced. All that remained in the wake of the chair screeching across the wooden floor was a four-inch gouge as Rhett propelled himself out of his seat and stalked over to the back window.

"I am sorry, Rhett, but there's only such much that can be done."

"I have spared neither worry nor expense and all I have to hold in my hand is another apology?"

"Look here, Rhett. I've hired out two men to pursue this day and night. Now, if you're willing to put up more money, I'd just as soon take it as the next fellow. But as your friend, I have given you what another hired man won't—the truth."

"Of late, your version of the truth resembles an appeasement conveniently cast in quicksand, Sully."

"What more do you expect? What more _can_ you expect? Think about what we had just talked about. Look at all the changes that are happening throughout this nation. Consider Rockefeller's oil and Vanderbilt's railways. No sooner than John D. had put Standard on the map, he and The Commodore have done naught but dip each other's wick.

"Hell, ever since those two have been in bed together, this country has birthed over twenty thousand miles of rail— _Twenty... Thousand... Miles_. And what do you think happens after all that track has been laid down? I'll tell you what happens. In the blink of an eye, another little piss-ant town has just sprung up around the next bend.

"Think of the implications, Rhett. Damn near anybody can walk up to the depot and purchase a one-way ticket to anywhere. For the price of a stub of paper, they can cast off their lot and buy themselves a whole new life. That's all it takes—a piece of paper no bigger than your thumb and the desire to be gone."

"Sully, don't misconstrue what I am about to say. Be assured, it is nothing personal, but I have contacted Pinkerton."

"PINKERTON?! God in heaven!" In cahoots with his lower lip, his jowls bobbed about. "Would you be so kind, good sir, as to regale me with an account of your European enlightenment? Had you, perchance, staggered out from a pub and into the Atlantic? Had some ancient relic fallen from the sky and conked you on the head? Forgive me, Rhett, but I simply lack the power in imagining you all gussied up in one of your fancy suits whilst living in a cave!"

"Sully, I am fully aware of Pinkerton's raid on the James' farmhouse this past January."

"Jesse's mother was maimed and his younger brother was _killed!_ "

"The outcome was unfortunate."

"Unfortunate, yes. Appropriate...? I reckon it will do me no good to understand the workings of your mind. It now appears that we are not of a similar bent. I hired investigators. You want mercenaries." Sully tipped his head to one shoulder mulling over the revelation. "It's your business, Rhett, but I can't help but wonder, is it your fervent wish to find her... or to _hunt_ her down?"

Still sculpted and beautiful, still powerful and graceful—yet forever restless—the aging thoroughbred pulled out the antique timepiece from his fob pocket and ignored the barrage.

"You know, Rhett, for the past couple of years I've kept Clarabelle. Now, I know her charms can't hold a candle to the beauties that have always graced your arm, but she suits me just fine. She's obliging, available, and not so terribly demanding. Don't misunderstand me, there were some matters that needed a hammer to the head, but now that everything has been set to rights, I couldn't be more pleased."

"How much did it cost you?"

"Not much at all—a little shotgun house down on St. Andrew's and an allowance with enough for a shiny new bauble every now and again."

Once spoken aloud, the pretty words felt leaden, sounding tired and flat to the ear. Sully swiveled his chair and faced the drooping shelves overburdened with leather-bound tomes of codification. Sinking into a glumness of which few people save the other man in the room could comprehend, Sully slouched in his chair. He rested his clasped hands on his stomach and honed in on a faded daguerreotype smiling back at him from behind a gleaming silver frame. The sparkling glass and polished border made the incongruity of the pristine photograph all the more stark when situated amid the dust motes cloaking every exposed surface. Sorrow hung heavy until the unnatural silence was intruded upon by Sully's chest struggling to rise and fall with a lone shuddering breath.

"How long has it been since Adelaide's passing?"

"My Addie will be gone three years come this October." Sully's cravat remained tucked underneath his second chin, and buried somewhere within his collar. He tilted his threaded hands outward from his stomach and stared at his palms. "Aw, hell. Who knows? Maybe one day the sun will shine again."

Sully contemplated the man of great contradictions cemented to the window in the opposite corner of his office. The disharmonious moment droned on as murky undercurrents belied the tranquility of the scene. The walls became an enclosure, a pen separating the pair from a world of boundless horizons, of simple joys, and of freedom. In a mere transformative moment, the men were mortal no more; they were creatures—confined and dispirited. The old plow horse exhaled another long, drawn out sigh and chanced another look at the proud yet bridled stallion staring out into an unrecognizable world.

"You've kept your actress for over a year now. You reckon it's about time you fixed your intentions with that girl?" Sully hesitated briefly, softening his tone. "You're a good man, Rhett, and a good friend. And as your friend, allow me to say this and do you a good turn."

Sully abided the extended quietude until Rhett surrendered to eventuality.

"Speak your peace."

"Stop lying to yourself. She's gone and she intends to stay gone. And that, my friend, is the truth that you seek. You are _never_ going to find her. "

* * *

"I lost my footing and fell down... a... a couple of steps."

"A _'couple'_?" Dr. Morris parroted as he queried Scarlett with no small ration of incredulity. She steadied her chin with aplomb, donning an air of hauteur of which could rival the condescension of an empress. He ran bony fingers through his thinning hair, further mussing the unruly ginger strands that streaked across his crown, and sighed in disgust.

The gaucheness tainting his reaction revealed his personal discontent with enduring the trials as Norfolk's prominent physician. Seated before him was another reticent young woman, which in turn meant another crude diagnosis extracted from a consultation mired in posturing and shame. He pushed his round-rimmed glasses up and over the sizable slope on his aquiline nose.

Mesmerized by the slightest gesticulation, Scarlett's lips silently tallied the freckles on the back of his spindly hands and generous forehead. She determined not to return to her home that day until her arms were laden with a bounty of frilly gloves and pink sun bonnets for Ella.

"Other than some... _bruising_... did you receive any other injuries from your fall?"

 _Bruising!_ Mortified and riled, Scarlett snatched her reticule, yanking the string along with herself from the chair. She had to break free from that arrogant man's barb coiling around her throat. However, her attempt to make a swift escape was stymied by a soft knock. Dr. Morris glanced toward the door, slightly ajar, and addressed the nurse. "Yes, Mother?"

Scarlett held her breath and extended her arm behind her, blindly reaching to find the seat of the chair. Mrs. Morris sought her out but Scarlett had to avert her eyes. The matron floated into the room wearing a dove gray-colored basque with a delicate Mother of Pearl broach adorning the high collar, trimmed with starched-white lace. Her eyes shone of the softest silver, and her hair had the look of soft wisps lining a cloud.

To the dispassionate eye, Mrs. Morris was a pleasing yet unremarkable woman, but to Scarlett, she personified a particular loveliness. Her hands were gentle and warm. Her countenance was honest and kind. She laughed with her eyes. She exuded grace and strength. Yes, to Scarlett, she was the embodiment of compassion—and deep within, Scarlett longed to be soothed by this woman's embrace.

"I beg your pardon." Mrs. Morris stepped into the office holding Scarlett's gloves in her hand. "You left these in the examination room, dear." Mrs. Morris' presence had such a profound effect on Scarlett's equanimity that Scarlett lowered her lashes and pulled in her bottom lip, lest Dr. Morris should see her as another weak female.

"Thank you, Mother."

Soon after Mrs. Morris' departure, Scarlett conducted a handful—or possibly, a peck—of covert glances, scanning Dr. Morris' features: the beady eyes, the beak of a nose, the scrawny physique, the unkempt hair.

He was a buzzard.

But how could that be? How could a buzzard be the offspring of a mourning dove?

"I don't understand, Dr. Morris." Scarlett retook her seat and renewed her determination of cutting off the blood flow in her index finger, at present tangled around the string of her satchel. "I came here because I was feeling tired is all."

"How far along were you when you miscarried?"

"About three months."

"Prior to your fall and subsequent miscarriage, have you had a history of difficulties with your other pregnancies?"

"No."

"Do you find that you are experiencing any ongoing troubles since your fall?"

Dr. Morris continued his interrogation with his brows nearing his stratospheric hairline.

"Every once in a while, after a long day, my back tends to tire easily."

Scarlett traded her gloves and handkerchief from one hand to the other, tugging at buttons and knotting lace around her fingers before each exchange.

"In taking into consideration that you had suffered a miscarriage from your fall, did your doctor address the possibility of having more children?"

"Dr. Meade said I was fit as a fiddle. As a matter of fact, he thought the best thing for me was to—" Scarlett hiccuped into the wadded bundle of linen pressed against her lips mumbling, "I don't understand."

Dr. Morris rubbed his fingers along his forehead, uttering a profanity. He steepled his hands in prayer and supported his elbows on the desk. His sight line wandered no further than his fingertips.

"There has been some research that came out of Harvard University this year past regarding internal medicine..." He squinted at Scarlett over the top of his spectacles, observing her coping—and failing—to maintain a detached affectation. All that he saw was pretense. "Well, I suppose that is neither here nor there." He pushed his glasses up above his brow and pinched the bridge of his nose. "By all accounts, I have determined from my examination—and according to what you were willing to reveal—it would appear that your body's ability to withstand bearing another child has been compromised."

The clock on the mantle ticked for several seconds in a room filling with a sickening calm.

"No."

"Madam—"

"No."

"I am sorry, but I'm afraid that I will have to counter Dr. Meade's good opinion and advise you to refrain from having any more children."

"I came here because I was tired is all."

"A symptom of what I believe is a direct result of your fall. I must be blunt, madam. In your current physical state, you—your body—does not have the strength to carry another child. If you wish to discuss methods of prevention, there are... ways..."

Scarlett was at the door, fumbling for the knob long before her chair had ceased wobbling around the floor.

"I thank you for your time, Dr. Morris. If you will excuse me, I-I'm late for—excuse me."

Hastening her way downtown to anywhere, Scarlett found her steps frozen to the front window of the local watchmaker, C. F. Greenwood on Tidewater Street. The mellifluous chimes of a custom Mermod Frères music box rising above the city's daily pandemonium arrested her attention.

She stepped up to the glass, placing her fingers on the pane. A feeling of purity resonated over her and the wafting melody filled with sweetness lightened her heart. Spellbound was Scarlett by the comb as it picked and flounced, the tines danced their way across the gleaming brass cylinder. Consumed by the familiar strains of a delicate flowing air—so soft, so ethereal—Scarlett's lashes fell, brushing her cheeks as her mind reawakened a hidden yet treasured memory.

The abomination. The injustice. The mortification.

Oh, how wretched was she!

Scarlett stuffed herself back into the downy haven of the silk-covered pillows overflowing with ruffles and lace. Underneath her weight, feathers collapsed and molded themselves to her tiny figure. Her person, harboring a scowl and arms folded across her wriggling belly, upturned her nose at the ceiling's painted mural heralding the saints and apostles alike, floating high above the clouds.

Her eyes traveled a threadbare path, woven of vexation, from the delicate pink ribbons dotted along her dressing gown, to the invitation on the salver, and back to the empty expanse at foot of her bed. Her petal-soft lips shriveled into a pout.

Scarlett smoothed her dressing gown as she glided her hands down her sides and swaddled the underside of her rounded stomach. She first kicked up her left foot and then the right, and after a few huffs and a couple of puffs, Godey's latest edition two-stepped across her tummy and flopped onto the floor.

"Go away!" She shrieked over the fructiferous girth anchoring her to the bedclothes. Her eyes narrowed into two lines of dark lashes aimed at the interloper breaching the threshold. No one dare intrude upon her prostration of which entailed endless wallowing in a hefty dose of pique.

"Good evening, my pet. If I may be so bold, I must say that your confinement has done wonders for your complexion." Scarlett opened one eye and glared at Rhett positioning himself at the side of the bedstead, casting a shadow over her. "My dear, you have never looked lovelier."

"Why am I being punished for having a baby?"

"Ah, yes. How does the saying go, 'The meek shall inherit the earth... after the indignant and indisposed have scorched it', of course."

"That's not how the saying goes."

"If I placed your hand on The Bible, would you swear by your knowledge that lies between the covers, my little theologian?"

"I don't know what that word, 'thogian'—"

"Theologian." Rhett enunciated.

"—means, but I know that what you said is not right."

"Shall I call upon the pietism of either the ladies Meade or Merriwether to sanctify a biblical passage of such momentous import?"

"How difficult would it be to get a blessing to fall from one of their mouths? First, you must dangle a dollar bill underneath their nose and then say that it's for The Cause. And then, look down at your feet. I guarantee, the sight before you would be a pair of old pea hens spit-shining your shoes."

"Darling, I could dump a wagon-load of greenbacks, fertilized by my own groveling, upon the most sanctimonious stoops in Atlanta, and my due comeuppance would still be in arrears. It pains me to say that even your rich, scalawag of a husband can not afford to purchase a commission granting himself a welcomed embrace within the heaving bosoms of those old pea hens."

Ever it be so ladylike, Scarlett trumpeted her concurrence out through her nose. She traced his movements as Rhett scooted her aside and seated himself next to her on the bed.

"Are you going out?" Scarlett pinched her brows together bemused by his choice of attire. Donning black evening slacks, a brilliant-white silk vest and a matching shirt, he appeared to be in the midst of preparing to spend the evening about Atlanta. And yet, he sat beside her in a casual state of dress, for he had relieved himself of his coat and cravat, and came to her with an opened shirt collar.

"In a matter of speaking, I won't be going out, but I will be entertaining this evening." Rhett bent down and picked up Godey's Ladies Journal, setting it atop another invitation to a carpetbagger's ball on the tray.

"It's not fair, Rhett. It's just not fair! Right this very minute, the whole entire world is all dressed up, drinking champagne, and dancing the night away while I'm lying here and getting bigger by the minute!"

"Did I ever mention Gabby Flanders to you? She was the belle of Dorchester County." Rhett expounded at the disinterested scrunch of Scarlett's nose. "Dorchester is the next county over from Charleston." An aspect of nostalgia overtook him and softened his features. Sighing, he lifted his chin up to the heavenly frescoes painted across his ceiling and cocked his head to the side. Unable to bear opening both eyes at once, he cringed at the harsh glare beaming off the slipshod representation of the Sistine Chapel. "My, but she was a fine young thing."

"What the—?! Why should I give a fig about some scrawny, whey-faced nin—" Scarlett clamped her hand over her mouth. A devilish glint fired as her brightened eyes cut to Rhett. "Pray tell, Rhett, was she your first love?"

"You are mistaken on both scores, my pet. Firstly and to the latter point, I did not carry a tendre for Gabby and secondly, by no means could Gabby's figure have ever been misconstrued as 'scrawny'. As a matter of opinion, some folks would actually say that she was quite healthy, even a mite plump."

"Is there a point to this story, other than to drive me to distraction?"

"Ah, patience—thy name is Scarlett. Although a bit Rubinesque in size, for four years running Gabby had managed to take home the blue ribbon for every contest that she had entered at the county fair. My point is this, my dear, have you ever heard of the proverb, 'beauty lies within the eye of the beholder'?"

"Did she ever win a beauty contest strutting around eight months pregnant and fat as a hog?!"

"Scarlett, darling," Rhett brought her hand to his lips and pressed a lingering kiss on the back of her wrist. "Gabby _was_ a hog."

"YOU SKUNK!"

Rhett reared back distancing himself from the unfurling winds of wrath barreling at him. "If Lars Flanders were alive today, he would not take kindly to the scorn of which you have so cruelly foisted upon his dear Gabby. Why, she was his prized sow and the pride of Dorchester County."

Unable to bridge the distance between them, Scarlett punched and kicked the air until worn breathless. However, never one to succumb to defeat, she pummeled her elbows into the mattress and pedaled her feet against the growing puddle of linens and goose down drowning her feet. Neither leverage nor gravity proved trustworthy allies in her battle to push herself up into a sitting position. As ought expected of a dutiful husband, Rhett tucked away a Cheshire grin and extended his hand, aiding her into an upright attitude.

Futile assistance aside, Scarlett had yet to achieve success in attaining an increasingly insurmountable goal of touching her toes. She extended her right arm across her rounded belly and heaved herself onto her side, stretching her wriggling fingers towards her left foot. It was for naught. Attempting once more to methodically skin that age-old cat, Scarlett flung her left arm across her right side and rolled, and grunted, and twisted. "God's nightgown!" She flopped her back against the pillows. "Oh, just give it to me!"

"Of what are you referring to, my dear?" Rhett craned his neck at the pace of a tortoise moving in 3/2 time, twisting his chin across his right shoulder. With his left arm trailing in languid pursuit, he pointed his finger over yon fecund hill towards his dearest one's limbs, still flailing but with a trifle less vigor. "Your slipper?"

"YES!" Scarlett's flapping hand gathered strength as the tendons temporarily disconnected themselves from her wrist. "Give it to me!"

Rhett outstretched his arm and gently dislodged the mule from the slightly swollen foot that was within his reach. From the tip of the rounded toe to the back of the half-inch heel, the delicate satin slipper was dyed a hue as vibrant as the rosiest rose and topped off with an ostrich feather to boot. Rhett placed the sandal in the palm of his hand. Bowing his head in reverence, he gestured with a flourish as he presented his highness with her coveted prize.

"Thank you, Rhett." Scarlett flashed him a smile sweeter than tea, taking great care in retrieving her slipper, lifting it with the mere tips of her fingers. Once secure in her grasp, she fluffed the plumes adorning the mule and then... proceeded to whale the ever-loving Imperial stitching right off of his silver-threaded, brocade vest!

Whilst enduring several hellish moments of fending off the royal flogging, Rhett held his powerful arms out before him, conveying his innermost sentiments with a sniff: his fingernails were indeed due for a trim. Appearing satisfied with his inspection, he captured her wrist in mid-strike, relieving Scarlett of her fuzzy lethal truncheon. "Forgive me, my queen, for interrupting my most thorough anointing, but are you aware that you have been wearing a pair of mismatched houseshoes this entire time?"

"I can't see my feet, you varmint!"

"Ah, I have erred." Rhett fluttered a kiss upon the tip of her nose and surrendered her weapon of choice. Ill-disguised was the somber look of contrition—it being tattled on by a juddering lip beneath a twitching mustache. He pulled his expansive shoulders back, puffed out his chest, and lifted his aristocratic chin. The fanciful wrinkles on the plaits of his vest were smoothed down followed by a couple of tugs to the bottom hem. Squeezing his eyes tight and adding a wee bit of panache, Rhett drawled, "Then by all means, carry on."

Pulling a face that could be only rivaled to her inaugural sucking on a particularly tart lemon, Scarlett kept her fiery stare affixed on Rhett as she hurtled the plumage across her body and onto the floor. Of equal parts innocence and insolence, Rhett took her by the hands encouraging Scarlett to rise from the alter whereby she had effectually been christened the sacred bearer of the Butler issue.

"Come with me, darling."

"Where?"

"You shall see." Rhett secured her fingers around the crook of his arm, leading her towards the bedroom door. "Close your eyes."

"But... my slipper."

Exasperated by the lengthy waddle down the hallowed halls of the Peachtree mansion, Scarlett stomped her foot. "Why am I standing in the middle of the ballroom?" Umbrage boomed throughout the cavernous hall, bouncing off the four corners and tinkling the crystal bijou dangling from the chandeliers.

She spun on her heel espying his muscular back concealing some silly contraption resting upon a small serving table abutting the wall. "Rhett, what in the devil are you fiddling with?"

"Hush." He tossed Scarlett a crooked grin over his shoulder. Scarlett crossed her arms atop her belly and groaned.

"Rhe—"

A second nonverbal reprimand by way of a pointing finger and hush she did, silenced by that determined, confident air that only he possessed as he strode towards her.

Rhett draped one arm around her waist, and with his other hand, he gently entwined their fingers. Scarlett touched his shoulder, sliding her hand over his vest, the unbuttoned collar, and caressed his neck. She held her breath as her fingers found their way to his skin, seeking the warmth—the hypnotic rhythm—of his pulse.

The dulcet melody began to flow, the harmonies building and enhancing the beauty of the air, and together, they took their first step. The count was inconsequential for their bodies knew only each other, sensing the natural rhythm of the other as Rhett led Scarlett in their waltz. He splayed his fingers, caressing the small of her back, and brought her body flush with his. Scarlett melted into his chest cloaking herself—

"Stop!"

Rhett jerked his head back at Scarlett's uncharacteristic stumble and released her from his embrace. His dark eyes queried, failing to ascertain her intent as she grappled with his arm for support. She bent over with her pert derriere bobbing about in a manner that were equally endearing and inelegant. Still bemused by her abrupt change in comportment, Rhett's mustache twitched readying his tongue to inquire—until a mint green jacquard slipper with a golden tassel somersaulted past his head.

"There. Much better." Scarlett straightened herself and wriggled back into Rhett's waiting arms. In the detection of his amusement, her own expression, once beaming of self-satisfaction, transformed into one of tweaked irritation. Scarlett thrust herself upwards onto the dainty tips of her unshod toes. All the while staring him down, she butted her belly into Rhett's torso followed by an impressive knocking of his forehead with hers. "Stop your infernal laughing, Rhett Butler, and start twirling me around!"

"As you wish, my darling." Rhett chuckled, nuzzling his nose against the shell of her ear. Scarlett felt his smile grow against her neck, causing a frisson to erupt over her skin and her nightgown to shimmy at her feet. She would never know the lovely vision that she was as she rested her head against his chest with her eyes closed and wearing a breathtaking smile. All that mattered to her was being in that moment when he would lead her in the dance.

"Is that a music box, Rhett?" Scarlett mused as they glided in the direction of the instrument. "It sounds different."

"Yes, it is a music box and there are some subtle differences in the mechanisms."

"Whyever for?"

"For potential, my dear. Some time back, while I was traveling through Saxony, I had struck up a friendship with the inventor—a fellow by the name of Lochmann. He recognized my interest and was gracious enough to ship me a functional prototype."

"It mostly sounds like any other music box to me." Scarlett hemmed, but then slipped in a kittenish admission at seeing the twist in Rhett's mouth. "Well, maybe it is a mite prettier."

"The reason is because unlike any other music box that is equipped with a cylinder, the sound comes from a round, flat disk—similar to a dinner plate. And unlike a cylinder, the discs are interchangeable."

"Interchangeable? Does that mean that it can play more than one song?"

"That is exactly what it means, my shrewd little wife. I had supposed that if this contraption had struck your fancy, I would consider investing in Lochmann's company. Do you like it?"

"I do like it." Scarlett snuggled closer into his arms ever tightening around her. Their steps in the waltz became a shuffling of their feet. "I like it very much."

"Well then, I'm pleased."

"Rhett, is this _Serenade_?" Scarlett wondered aloud after humming a few bars. "You remembered, didn't you?"

"I will never tell." Rhett shushed their swaying bodies and cradled her face, his thumb caressing her cheek.

A look of tenderness softened her features as she stared into the intense light smoldering within Rhett's eyes. She would never know how deeply afflicted was he when she would bestow onto him her lustrous eyes, colored brilliant by warmth and affection. She would never know that within her own beautiful eyes, she forever held the power to steal his breath.

And yet it was he that stole hers.

With his mouth hovering above her own, Scarlett's hands fisted the bulky stitching woven throughout his brocade vest; her breathing descending into shallow pants. She rolled her head back onto her shoulders and let herself feel the rush of his warm breath against her skin. The knuckles on Rhett's hand, dimpling the flesh in the small of her back, whitened. His breathing quickened in time with hers. She watched—he waited—until her tongue wet the delicate skin of her parted lips. Rhett clasped his hand around the back of her neck, and with a swiftness that made Scarlett gasp, his mouth crashed down on hers.

Within their intimate embrace, romantic touches gave way to instinctual desires. Rhett plundered, delving deep into the warmth of her mouth and forcing her jaw to relax. His tongue prodded and stroked nary allowing a breath to pass between them. Scarlett's only response was to rake her fingers through his hair and moan her encouragement while burrowing into his protective chest. He would never know that he was the only man that caused her nails to make indentations in her palms and her toes curl under.

The kisses grew longer. The caresses grew bolder. The need became greater until—

"So beautiful." he groaned against her lips. And without warning, a bout of insecurity pricked the surface. Scarlett's arms, once tightly wound around Rhett's neck, broke apart and fell the front of his vest. She bowed her head and all that could be heard was a whimper.

"Darling?" He caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger and lifted her face, and beheld eyes swimming with the heart-wrenching tears of a child. Scarlett slid her arms away and encased her swollen belly.

"Rhett, do you think I'm ugly?"

"Aw, honey." Rhett dropped to one knee. Running his hands down her arms, he threaded their fingers together. A sigh left him as his eyes drifted shut, warming Scarlett with his opened-mouth kiss so lovingly placed upon her stomach. Scarlett quivered above him, uttering not a sound as they locked eyes. "I should have spirited you away to Europe—France or Italy—and you would not have had to suffer society. You would have been admired, revered even, for the ethereal beauty that only comes from being an expectant mother.

"And as for myself, I would have walked a little taller, for there is nothing greater that can fill a man with pride than knowing that the lovely creature at his side is carrying his child."

"Thank you," came her watery reply. She did not recognize nor could describe the look in his eyes, and yet, in their depths she found the reassurance that she craved. Scarlett felt his reluctance in releasing their entwined hands as he stood, but the bereft feeling evaporated and they cuddled in his embrace once again.

"Do you feel better, darling?" Scarlett sniffled nodding against his chest. He ventured on, his tone growing decidedly playful. "Well, I'm relieved, for there is a dearth of anecdotes in my repertoire befitting our conversation—and, at this moment, I am not altogether certain that espousing the sagacity of Benjamin Franklin likening you to a cargo ship would have served me well."

Scarlett's pursed lips fought a mighty battle, waging a war against burgeoning dimples. Grabbing Rhett by the hair at the back of his neck and pulling his head down to her lips, she whispered in his ear. "You're a no good skunk, Rhett Butler." Sinking her teeth into his skin, she taunted. "And I don't like skunks."

Rhett turned his cheek and brushed his warm lips over the shell of her ear. "Of course you don't, darling, " he whispered flicking his tongue over her lobe. "You _love_ skunks."

Scarlett lifted her fingers from Greenwood's window pane separating her from the music box, and rested her downcast eyes on her muslin skirt crushed within her fist.

"Oh, Rhett." Freeing the material from her grasp and smoothing the wrinkles, she despaired openly. "Are you finally at peace?"

"Are you well, child?"

Scarlett jumped back from the storefront, blinking herself back into the moment. She stared into those kind, soft gray eyes crinkled with concern. "Mrs. Morris?" She stammered. "No. No, ma'am. I'm fine."

"You were beside yourself when you left my son's office." Mrs. Morris' straightened two fingers from the scallop-edged handkerchief ensconced in her grasp and placed them on Scarlett's forearm. She gestured her head toward an empty park bench agreeably situated in a gated patch of grass, underneath a red maple residing near the river bank. "Would you indulge me for a moment or two? I most certainly could wrest a little reprieve from this suffocating heat."

Her stride lacked fluidity as Scarlett was led to the lush green where they proceeded to sit beneath the leaves' canopy. Turning to Scarlett, Mrs. Morris smiled letting out a friendly sigh and plopping her clasps hands in her lap. "Well, here we are."

"Thank you for your kindness, Mrs. Morris." Scarlett placed her hand on the armrest and bent forward as she began to rise. "If you will excuse me—"

"Please?" Mrs. Morris tugged Scarlett's sleeve.

"I am unaccustomed to being spoken to in that way."

"I beg your forgiveness. My son means no offense. I believe he has inherited his gruff manner from his father." Mrs. Morris eyes mirrored the unease in her faltering smile. She pulled her lips between her teeth, gathering her composure. "You see, my late husband was a physician for thirty-four years. He was a good doctor and a good man, but he was a bit old-fashioned—set in his ways, you might say."

"Mrs. Morris, an apology is not necessary."

"I would wish to extend it all the same—along with an explanation." Mrs. Morris hesitated long enough for Scarlett to nod her acquiescence and began anew. "A few years back my son had just returned from medical school with his head full of newfangled ideas and soon after, assisted my husband in his practice.

"Goodness! What a trying time it was to live in the same house with that stubborn pair. They did not see eye-to-eye on most everything, and in particular, the care of women.

"As it happened, one of my son's first lessons regarding the concerns of a doctor came by way of treating a young married woman—a girl, really. She had never received suitable care and when she had finally sought his help, she had already born two children and was nearing confinement with her third." Her voice softened, barely audible. "Both her and the baby died before the child came to term."

"Stillborn?"

"No. Her situation went far beyond..." Mrs. Morris pulled her hand back from Scarlett's arm, committing herself to fretting the lace on the handkerchief still within her grasp. "The girl's suffering was simply more than she could bear. Although my son has not spoken of it since, I believe that he has always carried that young woman's sorrow with him." Through her periphery, Scarlett cautioned a wary glance at Mrs. Morris. "My son is an excellent doctor, but he differs greatly from his peers in that he is not so nearly insensitive to the struggles that are integral to becoming both a woman and a mother."

Scarlett trembled, unsure if it was a gust of wind or Mrs. Morris' true intent in conversing with her that left her to shiver. Regardless of the cause, the effect was the immediate rise of her hackles.

"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Morris, but your son doesn't know the first thing about me."

"And I beg to differ. He knows enough."

"There is no need to dance around me. I know what you are trying to say, and it is not true!" Scarlett's upper lip curled under exposing gritted teeth. "It was an accident!"

"Struck by a familiar hand—of that, I am certain!"

"Leave me be."

"Please, child! Please? Allow me to say this and I shall never encroach upon your privacy again."

Scarlett slumped her shoulders, and the ire weighting down upon her slid away. Exhaustion would not allow her to withstand the woman's perseverance. She met Mrs. Morris's concerned expression with eyes brimming in sadness. A slight dip of Scarlett's chin said yes, she would stay. Mrs. Morris eased nearer to Scarlett and pointed toward the Chesapeake Bay. "The best time to watch the ships coming into the harbor is at dusk. Their majesty, when cast against the colors of twilight, can be breathtaking."

"Then, I must make it a habit to take my exercise near the bay more often."

Scarlett veered her emerald eyes away from the sparkling water towards Mrs. Morris, who had been scrutinizing her with an expectant look. Scarlett cleared her throat, acknowledging that she understood the role she must play in ensuring their tête-à-tête remained a clandestine affair. Both women broke eye contact and, utilizing the scenery before them as a centric point, focused their sights on the ships floating along the Elizabeth River.

"You must not disregard my son's opinion of the dangers that would face you if you were to have another baby. I sought you out because I need to make you aware of the measures that a woman can take to protect herself, especially if she is solely reliant upon the charity of her husband's regard."

Scarlett felt the edge of a stiff piece of card stock being wedged into the palm of her hand resting itself on the seat between the women.

"Here." Mrs. Morris intoned softly. "Take this piece of paper to Terry's shop down on Water Street. Request an audience with Mr. Lewis, but be discreet. He is the druggist, and he will take care of everything."

"Pinkham's Tablets." Scarlett voiced her alarm as she read the notes written on the back of the card. "Prevents 'uterine tumors'?"

"The tablets are to ward off any disruptions to your body's natural cycle. They are perfectly safe. I can vouch for countless women that swear by them."

"But the new chastity laws—are these not illegal?"

"Heavens no, dear. They are perfectly legal to sell and buy"—a mischievous smirk broke through Mrs. Morris' mien of solemnity—"just so long as you go about it in the proper manner.

"Listen carefully, dear. Upon entering the shop, if you find that there are other customers about, again, be circumspect. You must inform Mr. Lewis of what ails you in precise terms. Tell him that you have been suffering from 'the worst female complaints'. He will know of what you are speaking, and if it is required of him, he will re-dispense the pills into a plain, dark bottle."

Scarlett stared down at the card partially hidden in her skirt. Her head jolted upon feeling Mrs. Morris' gentle touch awaken her from her stupor. Capturing a schooner dancing along to the rhythm of the river, Scarlett appeared transfixed by the hypnotic motion. Her eyes never strayed from the ship as she whispered, "And you say these pills will not harm me?"

"I would not have asked for your consideration if I had suspected anything to the contrary." Mrs. Morris caught the flutter of a chestnut-colored frock coat, eyeing a figure swaggering toward the bench. "Well, I must be on my way."

"Thank you, Mrs. Morris. Truly, you have been too kind."

Mrs. Morris cradled Scarlett's cheek, imparting a meaningful look. "Heal yourself, child, and be well."

Scarlett sensed his nearness before he had entered into her periphery. She squeezed the card digging into the bed of her hand and shoved it to the bottom of her reticule.

"Your presence was anticipated at the warehouse twenty minutes ago."

Scarlett bristled at the familiar click of a pocket watch snapping shut. Colluding with a stern countenance and an accusatory tone, the dramatization was a tactic employed whenever he elected to belabor his unequivocal opinion on punctuality.

"Mrs. Morris wished to speak with me, Andrew." She spat over her shoulder and made the bald statement of refusing to look at him. "What would you have me do, put her off?"

"What of your complaint that would require the gentlewoman to neglect her duties in the middle of the day?"

"Nothing so dire. Upon the by, Dr. Morris says that I'm well. Thank you for your concern." Her crooning was sarcasm itself.

Andrew rubbed his hands down his face, wincing as he sank next to her on the bench. She sensed a softening in his touch as he placed his hand over top of her fingers fused together in her lap.

"So you are not ill?"

"No."

"I apologize for failing to couch my irritation. When my ship docked this morning, I had wished for you to be with me as the bill of lading was being processed." Andrew lifted her hand by the fingers, still limp with residual irritation, and brushed a kiss across her knuckles. "Please forgive me, sweetheart. Are you certain you are well?"

"I'm fine." Drawing from within her most beguiling, vacuous Southern belle simper, Scarlett dimpled and shrugged her shoulders. "What exactly did you wish for me to see?"

"One of the steamers has just brought in a shipment of exclusive imports. If you recall, madam, the cargo boasted of some rather exotic household furnishings that I believe will bring in a very pretty price. And if you also recall, we are now in possession of a townhouse in Richmond boasting of not a lick of furniture."

"I'm afraid that my taste in decorating has always set folks to talking. I had surrounded myself with the most expensive things that money could buy, but I now realize that those things weren't necessarily the finest. I'm a certain that I will be happy with anything that you choose for the townhouse."

"Good God, Scarlett!" Andrew threw his head back nigh on chortling. "You speak as though your home had all the elegance and as much appeal as a bordello!" He cleared his throat and winked at her in good humor. "If it will ease your mind, the style of the furniture is reflective of designs from the Far East. You may find that they are not so very ornate—nor bawdy." His thumb stroked a lazy circle in her palm, "I was hoping that you would peruse the inventory and reserve a piece or two for the sitting room." He dropped his tone to a caress adding, "or perhaps, another room."

The tips of Scarlett's fingers tingled at the loosening of her fingers from the satchel's string. She wove her hand around Andrew's arm answering the suggestion in his private smile with a blush.

"If you would be so kind, my dear Mr. Trentholm, lead the way."

* * *

And it was everything to him.

It was peace and torment. It was liberation and imprisonment. It was an all-encompassing love and an all-consuming hate. It was heavenly raptures and fiery brimstone. It was the beginning and the end. It was a call to arms and surrendering the fight.

He spent precious time compartmentalizing the photographs and memorabilia before gingerly lowering the lid. Taking great care in its handling, he tucked the box into the velveteen lining of the cushioned drawer. Gripping the envelope, his step carried him back to the spindle-legged, circular table, peeking out from the corner of the window. Neither the vices nor sins that roused the Crescent City come nightfall could distract him from his thoughts. He collapsed into the chair alongside the table and poured himself another benevolent dose of clarity.

Rhett slid his finger underneath the fraying crease and unfurled the envelope. He lifted the flap and tipped it over, emptying its content into his waiting palm and placing the envelope next to him on the table.

It was her wedding band.

He sagged in the chair, bracing his elbows on his thighs. The ring, its circumference a sheer marvel in its diminutiveness, did not fit even his smallest digit. He lifted his signet finger pressed into the bed of his hand and was rewarded with the ring's imprint. Pinching the gold band between his thumb and forefinger, he held it to his mouth and breathed, "What if I were to let you?"

Back and forth, forth and back—he grazed the smooth metal across the seam of his lips until he felt it warming against his skin. Rhett released the ring and catching it in his fist as it slid into the bed of his palm. Clutching his bounty, he brought his hand to his mouth. His eyes crept aimlessly seeking that lone spectre covered in darkness. Calling out to the city's shadows, he bid into the sultry night. "Where are you?"

The door swung wide—light burst forth. The door slammed shut—caution thrust aside.

Veering away from being described as unflappable, the indicating mark of Rhett's distress at the disturbance was the kick of a wry smirk. His response to Marguerite's assault on his solitude trespassed no further than inching the wedding ring behind the envelope's flap, concealing it from of her line of vision.

She scurried over to where he sat, clad in a fluster of silk, piquant inebriates, and sticky flesh. Positioned between his legs, her hands drove into his thighs as she submitted to him lowering herself to the floor. The plaits of her dressing gown gaped, exposing the expanse of creamy skin from her heaving breasts down to her navel. Her fingers, once fixed upon his knees, crawled to the inside of his legs and rubbed the worsted wool of his pants into his flesh.

"Rhett?"

"Go back to your room and sober up."

"Please, Rhett. It was all a silly misunderstanding."

Marguerite whipped up her chin and flung her hair back. Innocence was begged with feral eyes and wild tumble of hair, and yet he remained impassive. Desperation began to seep in and fester. She lunged into his lap in a bungling attempt to disrobe him. Rhett straightened, tensing his muscles. His hands swooped in and caught her by the forearms. Crossing her wrists, he handcuffed her with one large hand and hoisted her fists above her head.

"Get off your knees."

Marguerite collapsed in his hands. Suspended by her wrists, she strained against the iron cuffs. To resist her imprisonment she leveraged her weight onto her thighs and sat back on her haunches. Rhett growled, baring his teeth. She nearly tumbled backwards onto the carpet, taken unawares when his grasp slackened, and he lobbed her arms out from him.

Expelling a heavy sigh, he reached across his body and fetched his nightcap from the table. Glaring over the tumbler's gilded rim while sipping the liquor from within, he exuded a frightening emptiness. His tongue slid across his bottom lip as he swallowed and slowly set the glass back down. His blackened gaze raked over her body; reflecting in their depths were the blushing areola and erect nipple of one bared breast. He casually fingered the rim of his glass with a look that had unnerved Marguerite into compliance.

"Very well." He blew out a breath. "Matters pertaining to our situation need to be resolved. However, I must caution you. Due to your servile attitude, you have positioned yourself at a disadvantage."

As if she were a child and Rhett was about to read a bedtime story, Marguerite scooted nearer, nestling her head on his leg. From his vantage point all that visible was her shoulders and profile, hidden underneath a mass of bedraggled hair, rocking to and fro as her cheek stroked his inner thigh.

"My lease on this property is due to expire next year. I have resolved not to relet and will forfeit the right to purchase."

All affections were stifled. She eased off of his leg, confusion and resentment dulling her eyes.

"What about me?"

"On your behalf, I have had papers drawn up that will discharge both of us from this arrangement."

"What arrangement?" She sneered.

"Ah, dear girl, at times you can be rather astute. It is true. During our time together, I have neglected your concerns and for that I must now make amends. My proposition is this—while I am still in possession of this house, you will continue on as its mistress.

"When I am in residence, I will happily introduce you to any acquaintance of mine that is to your liking. I will also service you as a companion, escorting you to the appropriate functions which will place you in the society of interested patrons, whereby allowing you to exhibit your charms and promote your availability.

"If, at the end of the leased term, you have yet to find a new benefactor, I will purchase you a home in conjunction with a settlement. Upon your release, I intend for you to be adequately compensated and will provide you with a comfortable existence."

Bending over, Rhett slipped his fingers underneath the embroidered pleats on her robe. His hands gently drew the lapels of her dressing gown to a close.

"Please don't be so severe! It was a mistake. Milly must have misplaced the box with your preventatives."

"Do not conflate the issues."

Marguerite leaned away, partially sitting back on her calves. She anchored her gaze over her shoulder. Her breaths dragged and her face was pinched about the eyes, until her evident decision smoothed her features and set her jaw. She returned to Rhett addressing him with a coolness that was laudable when considering her predicament.

"What if I have a baby?"

"Nurture that thought with utmost prudence. If you are to fall pregnant prior to the formal dissolution of our agreement, all contractual obligations that I have set forth will be rescinded."

Marguerite flinched—the conviction in his voice underscored his words. Rhett allowed the silence to linger as the portrait of her reality was placed upon display. She could do naught but helplessly envision the paint dripping down the canvas, the running colors muddling the scene.

"Don't look so frightful. I assure you that if you were to have a baby, I will undertake all responsibilities as its guardian and see to its welfare until the child is of age." Rhett hooked his finger under her chin and chucked her head up. "But hold fast to my words, dear girl. In the aftermath of the child's birth, you will find yourself with neither a home nor one red cent."

"How can you think so lowly of me? I would never scheme to abuse your compassion!"

"Well, now that we have implicitly established what is deemed _abuse_ , I will rest easy knowing that you are a lady of honor who is as good as her word." The corner of Rhett's mouth hitched up, flavoring his retort with salt.

Fear, hope, greed, hate, desire, need—time trudged on as contrary emotions all at once disfigured and beautified her countenance. An upturned lip broke the impasse, betraying her decided purpose. Her luminous eyes, brilliant with a lust undefined, never strayed from Rhett's face as she gauged his receptiveness. Advancing her mission by the employment of lengthy, leisurely strokes, she massaged the tops of his legs until her hands converged upon his groin.

"Well, I reckon there is only one thing left for me to do." She purred, licking away the drop of satisfaction wetting her lips, for her gambit had been met with wan resistance. "I must make you want me as much as I want you."

"Let us not foul this up further." Rhett cradled his head between his thumb and index finger and rubbed his temples, stretching his skin taut.

"I know it is not what you wish to hear, but you must know that I love you, Rhett. I love you so much."

 **'~*~'**

Cognizant of his mercurial state, she hastened in unbuttoning his trousers. Bracing her hands on the chair, she pushed herself backwards and rose up on her knees. It was their dénouement and the seductive coquette played the part, chewing on her coy smile. Within the span of no more than a tug at the sash and a shrug of the shoulders, silken inhibitions trickled to the floor and pooled at her feet. Tickling and dragging along, her fingertips wandered down her alabaster neck and across her chest, encircling her breast. They pinched, and they toyed—and the nipple deepened scarlet. She brought her other hand up to her parted lips. Her tongue lashed out flicking the pad of her finger. Swollen lips puckered around the tip and a hungry mouth suckled the digit deeper, her tongue licking and coaxing until her finger was fully sheathed.

His nostrils flared—his senses impregnated by the musky redolence of her arousal. She plucked the moistened finger from her mouth, beckoning him to follow its glossy trail as it meandered past her naval. Her fingers combed through the tight curls at the apex of her legs. Guiding her hand lower, she spread her thighs open and cupped her madge. Drawing her shoulders inward, she hunched over burying her head between his knees.

"Go back to bed." The hoarseness grating his tone belied indifference. Anchoring his elbow on the armrest, he realigned his hips, edging himself into the corner of the chair. He hissed through gritted teeth, unable to quell the indescribable sensation capable of boiling a man's blood—the touch of a woman's fingers wrapping around his cock.

He craned his neck, tilting his head back. The slow burn intensified as fervent strokes melded with a wet warmth swallowing the length of his shaft. Cautioning a glance, he spied waves of golden hair blanketing his lap. The tresses ebbed and flowed to the seductive cadence of her head—dipping down, then up—and her shoulder blades—rolling in, then out.

His lids grew heavy and his breathing slowed. Leaning against the backrest, he lolled his head to the side. The whirring fragments of his turbulent mind diffused, and he had begun to drift...

—until he spasmed.

Off in the distance, a sparkle pierced the temporary haze of physical gratification—and his face contorted exposing his pain. Picking up the piece of gold with shaking fingers, he buried it in his palm and brought it to the grim line formed by his mouth.

He adjusted again, but his body's stirring never broke her rhythmic lapping and sucking. Delving one hand in her tresses, his fingers dragged down her scalp. Gathering a handful of hair, he twisted it in his fist. Clenching his fingers until his knuckles turned white, he jerked her still. With him gripping her head and her choking for air he spat through clenched teeth, "God, damn me."

* * *

© 2017-18 Olivia E. Landry. All Rights Reserved.

* * *

I would love to know your thoughts: Did Rhett allow 'it' to continue?

 **10/27/2018: Aethelfraed, Mistress  & Guests: **As much a I would love to get in on the fantastic discussions that are occurring, at this point, I am clearly an impediment. I have removed the moderation feature for reviews while reserving the right to delete any reviews that are considered offensive or inappropriate. **Enjoy!**

A/N: If you are interested, I will gladly provide a list of footnotes with respect to the research conducted for YMCB. I haven't done so at this point because I simply dread compiling it at the moment. *blush*

I need to send out a special 'Thank You' to another GWTW author, Cornorama. She had provided the leg work regarding a Harvard Study on the vena cava conducted in 1874 in one of my favorite GWTW fics, 'This Year's Love'. After doing a bit a research on how a fall such as Scarlett's would have impacted a person's body, the deduction of what most likely should have happened is pretty grim.

From a writing perspective, I am one of those writers in which music has a significant impact on my stories. Many times a scene will be borne from a song. I have started a Pinterest page which contains all of the songs that have influenced YMCB thus far. For this chapter, I had one song in mind for Rhett at the beginning and the end. It is **Home Free's** cover of **_'What We Ain't Got'_** (And only Home Free's version). Every time I hear that song, I think of Rhett in that moment. Ooh, I also have the song that became the defacto theme for YMCB. Have a look: {pinterest address}/ authorolivialan / ymcb-music /


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